


Chrysalis

by LittleSammy



Category: NCIS
Genre: AU, F/M, Heavy Emotions, Het, dysfunctional people getting their shizz together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSammy/pseuds/LittleSammy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How it should have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. past

**Author's Note:**

> **notes & warnings: ** AU, obviously. Meet Sammy's new reality, in which the show ends with the last episode of season ten and this is where they'll go from there. Funny enough, this one started out as a flippant remark and then turned into something I wasn't quite prepared for: the base for a whole universe I will happily play in from now on -- a universe in which Ziva doesn't run away and they figure out their shit and how things work. (Yes, there are already at least three other stories planned in it.)
> 
> Nothing explicit happens in this story... or rather, it happens, but it isn't explicitly written about. Oh, wait -- two bad words towards the end, but those are courtesy of a movie quote. ;)
> 
> Massive thanks to Maya, my hyper-active muse and willing test subject. I'm two weeks late, but consider this a happy birthday gift, my dear. The rest of you -- consider it an early Christmas gift? ;)
> 
>  **comments & feedback: ** Very much appreciated.

**_When the caterpillar is fully grown, it makes a button of silk, which it uses to fasten its body to a leaf or a twig. Then the caterpillar's skin comes off for the final time._**

*** *** ***

"No," was the first raw, unfiltered reaction they got from Abby, and it was something they all had expected ever since they'd come to terms with the situation. Her hands waved angry circles into the air, and her lipsticky mouth twisted in an ugly way while she bared her teeth at what she had just been told. "You can't do this. You can't leave."

"It's already done," Tony replied quietly. He leaned against the autopsy table, arms crossed and head lowered while Abby's whipped around like a scorpion's tail and she glared at him. Ziva couldn't help the thought that there was a certain symbolism to his pose. She felt similarly right now, and she guessed the others weren't far from the emotions Tony radiated as well -- ready to lie down and let others cut up their remains. What she had told them earlier, that she'd never depended on happy endings... in a way, it had been true. It was disconcerting to realize, though, that some part of her may have expected one after all. It would have been... nice.

"I refuse to accept that!"

"Abby." It was Ducky who gently spoke her name this time, with his hand on her shoulder and his voice infuriatingly calm while she got more and more agitated.

"No! This isn't happening, plain and simple. You guys are my family, and family doesn't walk out on each other!"

Ziva breathed in deeply and looked to the side, and Abby blinked and stared at her, hand raised halfway as if she wanted to reach out for her because she suddenly understood a thing or two. She never completed the gesture, though, and so she ended up looking like a still out of a gory comedy.

Jimmy glanced at each of them. His gaze was unsteady, restless, especially when he looked at Tony, and Ziva knew that was the way he always looked when he didn't know what to say. It was rare with Palmer and his too-fast, unfiltered brain-to-mouth way of talking, but she had seen it before. Any minute now, he would take off his glasses and--

She fought the involuntary smile when he rubbed the left lens furiously, because there was nothing amusing about this situation and now was not the time for smiles. The brief amusement trickled away as fast as it had come anyway when she realized that from now on she would miss a lot of his awkward little habits. She wouldn't get to see them anymore on a regular basis. And she wouldn't get to see photos of his baby, once he and Breena had beaten all the formalities. She blinked hard, and for a heartbeat she was tempted to join Abby in her stark refusal of facts. She had fought so hard for this. Sacrificed so much. Her eyes met Tony's, and that was when her heart skipped a beat. Too many sacrifices, maybe.

"We're not walking out on you," he pressed out through his teeth just then. He tried to appear calm, but Ziva could still hear how it ripped him apart just as much as it affected Abby. She'd always been able to tell. "We'll still be around."

"But that's not the same!" Abby hissed and stomped her foot. It was a ridiculous gesture, more suited for a teenager than a grown woman. And yet, Tony flinched and his posture grew a little more stiff because yes, she was right. It would not be the same, not by a long shot.

Deafening silence followed her outburst, and for a while none of them knew what to say. Because she was right: it would not be the same. They all knew that.

McGee cleared his throat eventually, and then he said a word they hadn't heard in a long time. "Campfire," he murmured, and Tony raised his head in surprise and stared at his partner. No, former partner.

It was a word McGee had only used willingly once, and it echoed the gravity of their situation loudly. In the end, Tony nodded, Ziva breathed out, and Abby closed her mouth. This wasn't quite over yet, they all knew that. But they all seemed to agree that whatever else needed to happen now could no longer happen here.

*** *** ***

It turned out soon that they couldn't come up with anything that made sense out of this mess, and so campfire turned into a never-ending stream of drinks at the nearest bar, mixed with many sobs from Abby and a few stray ones from Palmer. The unburied a lot of sorrow and many half-forgotten memories during that night, and with each one that got dragged back to the surface and mulled over in great detail, the mood turned a bit more somber and depressed. Part of Ziva wanted to suggest they should only remember the good times, really, but she was aware they weren't quite ready for that yet, and so she kept her mouth shut. Because it all came down to one thing: there had been so much more of the bad stuff to forge them together, and not enough good by a long shot.

She couldn't really remember the last time she had been this drunk. Certainly not since she'd become an NCIS agent. Her skin itched, and she felt raw and vulnerable and not entirely sure if it that was based on the alcohol or too many emotions. It was difficult to tell. 

Difficult to disentangle herself from the heavy presence at her side, too. Tony's warmth and his smell, almost overwhelming. It got to her how his hand strayed at one point and rested against the small of her back and he didn't even notice it. Her own hands skittered across the table when she realized that this was the part she would miss painfully. She'd miss being this close to him on a daily basis. Touching him accidentally and maybe leaning into him while he laughed at something Palmer stuttered and was too distracted to notice how close she really was. And suddenly she wasn't sure how she could keep doing this without these little things in her life. Without him.

"I will miss you all so much." 

The confession stumbled from her lips before she could help it, and Tony stiffened beside her as if she'd slapped him. She hated the fact that her speech was slurred now and she was way too drunk to keep the words inside that spilled out of her traitor mouth, but still...

And that was when Abby suddenly burst into big, fat tears, just like that, and McGee and Palmer almost fell over themselves in their attempts to mother her from both sides. It took a long while until they got her back to mostly calm, and while Ziva pointedly stared at her own twitching fingers and not her friend's face, she felt Tony grow really quiet beside her.

"We could do this, at least," he said eventually, and she turned her head and looked at him curiously. Much like her a second ago, he suddenly ducked his head and stared down at the table and the drink in his hands. Ziva, in turn, watched his strong fingers twist the glass slowly while she waited for him to elaborate. "Get drunk together, I mean. Once a week or whatever." He grimaced. "Provided we want to see that much of each other drunk on a regular basis."

Abby stared at him with suddenly wide eyes. Her makeup was a teary mess now, and her lower lip quivered, but for some reason there had always been a certain understanding between her and Tony, and so his words sank in a lot faster than the feeble comfort had. Her sobs dried up, just like that, and then she nodded once, sharply, her mouth set in a certain determined way. 

"Of course we want that. We want to see each other any way we can, right, guys?" Her eyebrows narrowed when there wasn't an immediate group cheer to answer her question, and she glared at each of them furiously. " _Right,_ guys?"

They looked at each other quietly, a hint of uncertainty in their expressions. Then, weirdly, it was McGee's shrug that somehow settled things and called it a vote. Palmer broke into a slightly stupid grin in response, and Abby bounced excitedly, but Tony... Tony still stared into his drink and tried not to show a reaction, and Ziva wasn't entirely sure why he suddenly looked so hesitant. Maybe because he, like her, was deep down pretty sure this wouldn't become a new tradition after all. They'd do it once, twice, and then the first of them would have other plans. Maybe McGee would have a date with pretty Delilah, and Abby would go bowl with her nuns, and Palmer would rather be home with his wife than drinking with his almost-friends. And each of them would figure it wouldn't matter all that much if they missed a week or two because all of the others would still be there, after all. And that was how things would really come to an end: neglect, not circumstance.

But right now Abby didn't want to hear this kind of thing, so Ziva didn't voice her doubts out loud. Weirdly, though, she didn't even have to. Just this once Abby seemed to realize they were not all in yet, and so she squared her jaw and stretched out her arm in a challenging gesture. For a second they all stared at the pale, bony hand hovering above the table, asking for a pact. Then, one by one, they reached out slowly and put their own hand on top of the others.

Tony was the last, and it was weird because he'd been the one to suggest it in the first place, but now he suddenly seemed oddly tentative. His hand felt heavy on Ziva's, and she stared at the pile of their limbs, stared at his fingers because they trembled slightly and she wasn't quite sure what to make of that. That was, until their makeshift pact broke up and for a heartbeat she couldn't help but wonder if the way his hand tightened on hers meant that he'd keep his hold on her now. She wouldn't have minded that. Maybe he would weave his fingers into hers, like he'd done once before, and--

He didn't, of course. He let go of her just when she was about to turn her own palm up and meet him halfway, and she glanced at him sideways with snarling frustration curling in her belly. God, this man. She would never understand him. Not in a million years.

*** *** ***

Drinks came and went in fast succession after that, as if the dam of grief had finally broken and now they all needed to wash it down. Even McGee let himself off the leash far more than he usually would have, and by midnight he was almost completely unraveled. Around that time Tony's mood picked up and he started to weigh new career options. They were silly and completely over the top, granted, like standup comedian or professional back rubber... but still, the topic was suddenly out in the open. And that was about the time Ziva started to watch him with concern and a good deal of sorrow, because he was the one who shouldn't even be thinking this. He never did anything wrong. He...

She blinked and knocked back her tequila hard. Maybe it was just the alcohol, but on first try she couldn't remember a case where Tony had actually bent the rules. Never in the same way she or Gibbs had, at least. No, Tony, for all his emotional inadequacies -- he had always gone into his cases as straight-laced as they come. 

It was a confusing thing to realize: that her partner had a much better moral compass than the ones she used to look at for guidance. 

There was a weird taste in her mouth, and she grimaced -- not just because of that new perception of the man beside here, but because here it was again. The P word. The one she could no longer use.

"Hey," Tony murmured when she waved over the waitress to order another shot. He leaned into her so the others wouldn't hear, and for the briefest moment she was tempted to lean back. To just close her eyes and fall against him and wonder later if he'd catch her. "Go easy on the booze, Ziva."

There was Scotch on his breath, and he smelled so good and delicious that the corner of her mouth quirked up in a lazy response. "You're a fine one to talk," she mumbled back. Her eyes strayed, strayed, strayed, to his luscious lip and the way they twitched in response. For a heartbeat she felt herself drown in the need to know what he tasted like underneath the Scotch.

_You cannot be a butterfly, my Ziva._ But oh, how she wanted to...

His smile slipped from tense concern to amusement and back, but not all the way, and suddenly a weird sensation coiled up in her belly and left her all weak and warm and glad she didn't have to stand up right now. She had seen his protectiveness towards her before. At times, she had brushed it off because she had thought of it as intrusive and unnerving. Other times, she had attributed it to him just doing his job and caring for his partner. For some reason, though -- and maybe it was just the liquor again, on his end as well as hers -- for some reason she had never quite put the pieces together before. Never enough to realize that he looked at her a certain way whenever he mothered her. That there were emotions laced into his protectiveness and the way his palm pressed into her back and his warmth at her side. That these were gestures far from generic touches. They were not the same kind of physical attention McGee would get from him, or Abby. They were... heavier. Like he put a piece of himself into these touches as well.

"Yeah, well," he shrugged with a crooked smile, and Ziva blinked while she fought the urge to touch that mouth. He was so warm and heavy. And god, he really smelled good tonight. Maybe--

He rolled his eyes at her when her cell phone went off, and she laughed while she answered because yes, this was sort of becoming their thing. 

No caller ID, but she knew the voice greeting her. It was a reflex to switch to Hebrew, much like the throaty laugh that rolled off her tongue was, because she had known him for so long and because for a brief moment, she forgot. But then Tony stiffened beside her and downed the rest of his scotch in a harsh, aggressive gesture, and that was when she recalled that things were no longer as clear-cut as they used to be.

"It's a long story," she said, in English now, but her attention drifted away from Adam's gentle voice when Tony got to his feet abruptly. She reached out for him instinctively, her fingers tightening around his wrist, and he stared pointedly at the intrusive hand that copied what he usually did to her. "And I'm not entirely sure I'm allowed to tell you."

She cut the talk short. Told Adam "later" and knew it meant never, and it didn't really matter because all that was important right now was the way Tony clenched his jaw while she ended the call. She said his name then, and he blinked, tense and angry and ready to snap any second.

"I need some air," he pressed out and stepped back, and her hand fell off his wrist, hung in the air for a heartbeat because she didn't want to let go of him, and she didn't want him to run away now. She had no idea how to keep him, though.

And then he was out of their booth, and Ziva blinked and stared at his back and watched him retreat. He slammed the door, and her swirling thoughts came to a grinding halt, trapped in confusion's quicksand. She probably knew more than the others about what was going on, and yet she was at a loss for words when Abby asked what the hell just happened.

*** *** ***

He hadn't gone far, and she caught him leaning against a wall just a few feet from the entrance; he had his eyes closed and his head tilted back, and his jaw muscles clenched in the way that always showed he was a little too close to losing his temper. If she hadn't known better, she'd have said he was in desperate need of a cigarette.

He noticed her, of course, but didn't move, and she wasn't sure if that meant he was willing to talk or if it was merely a continuation of shutting her out. So she leaned against the wall as well, right beside him, but careful not to touch him. She didn't want to provoke him, after all.

His profile was sharp and angled in the glare of the tacky neon sign above his head, and his jaw muscles twitched harder when he felt her gaze on him. She knew he was aware of her. She could see it in his stance. But he kept his eyes shut and pointedly didn't talk, and so she was the one to speak eventually.

"We need to figure this out."

For a heartbeat his eyelids fluttered restlessly. Then he breathed out slowly.

"You figure it out, I'm tired of trying."

"You said things wouldn't be awkward. You said we were still friends."

"Yeah, well, that was before I had to listen to--" He took a deep breath and bit off the rest of the angry words. For a second he struggled for control, hard, because he'd had a little too much Scotch and a few emotions too many, and that had loosened his tongue in a way he probably didn't appreciate. She tensed because she wasn't sure what to expect from him now. He was... rippling beside her, with tension and frustration and thinly veiled anger.

She jumped when he pushed himself off the wall and leaned into her. All of a sudden he was crowding her, and she was still up against the wall and vulnerable. It should have unnerved her -- and in all honesty that was probably what he intended -- but it didn't. As much as he confused her at times, she had never run from him, and she certainly wouldn't start now. She'd never been afraid of this particular kind of scary, and so she just raised her chin and met his stare dead on to turn it into a challenge.

Strangely, he accepted and leaned closer, and then his breath was on her mouth and his hands were against the wall, to both sides of her head, trapping her in place. He was huge. Funny how she almost never noticed how massive he was because he'd become so familiar. He was close enough to kiss her now, really, and she realized with a start that she wouldn't mind that. And then he leaned the tiniest bit closer, and her throat dried up, just like that.

"To be honest, my feelings aren't very friend-like at the moment." His words were just a rough whisper brushing her face, and her eyes widened at the intense tone that matched his expression perfectly. She saw too many emotions swirling in his eyes -- anger, impatience, and yes, a hint of desire as well. The last one scared her the most, though. It left her all weak and too vulnerable, and she had to press her palms against the wall because for a heartbeat she thought her knees might buckle.

And he knew. She could see it in his eyes. His gaze danced across her mouth now while he looked at her hungrily, pondering what to do; there was something in his eyes that made him look like he was about to eat her. Like he would just have to reach for her now and--

In the end it wasn't him who moved, though. Her own hand rose involuntarily, and she found herself horrified by her own audacity. She still reached out for him, though, slowly, like she had days ago, pressing her hand to his chest while his heartbeat quickened. And yes, his pulse stumbled in great big leaps suddenly; she could feel it against her palm. His eyes darkened, and for the fraction of a second she thought, this would be it. This would be the moment things changed. And even though she had no idea where that change would lead them, she was suddenly excited for it. She didn't even have a choice. It was the simple need to feel him that came bubbling to the surface. And it was such a narrow gap to breach, really. Just a minute tilt of her head and she could--

He breathed in deeply, just when her lips were about to brush his. Shook his head and stepped back hard and left her ready to scream in frustration.

He was already a few steps away when she found her voice around the bitter taste of anger rising in her throat. "I swear to God, Tony, if you run away now--"

He turned on his heel sharply, back towards her, and she could see him struggle with a plethora of conflicting emotions. His sharp, seething anger won out over the others soon, though: he bared his teeth and almost growled at her. "Oh, _I'm_ the one running away?"

"Right now, you are." She watched him grind his teeth, and there was confusion all over her own face now because she couldn't deal with this too well. She wanted to ask so many questions. She wanted to do things, too -- things she had never allowed herself to even think about before -- but this time it wasn't her own well-practiced restraint that kept him at arm's length. This time he was the one who wouldn't allow her to touch all the issues between them, and so she stared at him with a frown that spoke loudly of her conflict. When she eventually found words that didn't feel completely wrong, she went for the plain, unsettling truth, for the one question that kept running through her head. It was blunt, but it was as good a question as any to start with.

"I do not understand, Tony. You don't approve of me sleeping with someone else, but you don't want me to sleep with you, either?"

He laughed. It was the stuttery kind of laugh, the kind that said she'd gotten him right where it hurt with that question, and she was suddenly pretty sure he hadn't expected that from her. Not willingly. And certainly not tonight.

"I'm not gonna go there," he muttered eventually and shook his head, but before he could step back even further, Ziva moved and caught up with him. She was so very tempted to touch him again, to put her hand to his chest once more, but his gaze burned her, and in the end her hand remained just short of actual touch and hovered right above his heart instead.

_"Please,"_ she forced out, and he stiffened. His jaw clenched again, and for a heartbeat his expression darkened even more. Then he breathed out slowly, and his mouth twisted into a grim smile. He shook his head once more, and this time it was Ziva who flinched when he put his own hand over hers and raised it so he could press his lips to her palm. The gesture startled her, and she wasn't entirely sure if it was just the unexpected intimacy of it that unsettled her... or her own heated reaction to it.

"That's the crux, my dear," he murmured, and his mouth moved against her palm and sent hot shivers down her spine. "I'm in too deep to _just_ have sex with you."

His words ran out, but he didn't let go just yet. His mouth stayed agile, kept ghosting across her skin, and suddenly Ziva had trouble sorting through the intoxicating sensations he evoked. He was drunk, clearly. She knew him well, and she'd seen what he already had tonight, and yes, his control over his loud mouth was slipping rapidly. Maybe that was the reason he'd given her the blunt truth in that moment, naked and ugly and disconcerting, until she couldn't do anything but stare at him with wide eyes. Because despite _knowing_ , on some level, she... hadn't. Not really. And it confused her greatly that suddenly there were so many emotions openly at play between them when they had wasted years and years with pretending there weren't.

Before she could gather her wits and find good words to reply, though, he let go of her hand, nodded and left her for good this time. As if he hadn't just pulled her world out from under her feet like an old rug.

*** *** ***

She couldn't leave it at that, of course. She never could, not with him, because he was the same when it came to her. Tony, when he wasn't playing the clown, had never had any trouble sniffing out the easiest way to get under her skin. It almost felt like it was her duty to repay that special kind of alertness, especially now, with this whole... mess, surrounding them. Suffocating them. She wasn't sure if there had ever been something between them that mattered quite as much as seeing this through.

"Jesus, Ziva." He sounded as tired as he looked, and she wasn't entirely sure if that was the reason he barely reacted to her barging into the men's room or if he was simply used to it by now. The guy next to him, though, got more than nervous and suddenly had trouble finishing his business.

"You ran off. I wasn't done yet."

"Right. And this couldn't wait another minute."

"Clearly not." She continued to stare pointedly at the other man, and when he didn't get the hint to pack up, she frowned at him, just this side of a snarl. "You, out." It worked, unsurprisingly -- the stranger flinched and obeyed hastily.

She knew Tony was probably rolling his eyes while she stared angry holes into his back, and she also knew he would make her wait just that little bit longer tonight, simply because he was angry as well. Eventually he zipped up, though, and washed his hands. Her fingers twitched nervously while she waited for him to look at her, but for once he didn't budge and didn't meet her eyes, not even in the mirror. Not too long ago he had done that for the first time in eight years -- avoiding her, actively. And now she found once more that she simply didn't know how to deal with that kind of rejection from him.

"This isn't NCIS," he scolded her eventually, and she glared a little harder because she didn't know what else to do. She could hardly just sit on him until he gave in, could she?

"You dump this on me and then you refuse to talk about it?"

He sighed and flung the paper towel into the bin without even looking. "Right now? You're right, I don't want to talk about it. Because I'm on the verge of getting really drunk, and I just lost a job I really liked, and I need to get a whole lot drunker before I can even begin to figure out what all of this means."

He tried to leave, but didn't get very far because she stepped into his way to block his exit. She even leaned back against the door so he couldn't open it, and the way she did that and then raised her chin at him turned out so passive-aggressive that he stared at her with an involuntary mixture of exasperation and amusement. But in truth there was nothing funny about this, and so he squared his shoulders and stared her down with narrowed eyes, waiting for her to act.

It was a tactic that paid off, eventually, and she was the one to cave: her anger warred with puzzlement, and in the end pure, unfiltered confusion won out. And for some reason, that hesitant vulnerability affected him in turn, so much that he suddenly sighed and softened up around the edges. His lips twitched with words not spoken, and there was a spark of emotion in his eyes that got right under her skin when he finally asked her, quietly, "What do you want from me, Ziva?"

Her lips parted in reflex, and she really wanted to answer him -- needed to, even. And yet, she suddenly found herself at a loss for words, and so she hesitated once more and watched him with wide eyes while her own thoughts stumbled about haphazardly.

"I think it's rather a question of what you want from me, isn't it?" she replied eventually. She hated the fact that her voice sounded as unsure as her phrasing. She couldn't help it though.

"What I want has never been the issue, sweetheart."

"But it has become one now!" For a second she felt like stomping her feet angrily so he would listen to her, but just as suddenly she deflated again because barging in full force had left her on treacherous ground, and now she suddenly found herself in need of tiptoeing her way around the unsteady emotional terrain. "Does it really have to be this difficult, Tony? Shouldn't we at least try to figure out if our... needs are... compatible...?"

She stumbled over the last few words, like she always did when they talked about the important things between them, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in the parody of a smile. She hadn't planned on speaking about needs here, that much was sure, and he seemed very aware of that. At least she suspected that because his expression suddenly mirrored the turmoil inside her.

For a second she wondered if she should just leave now and blame it all on the alcohol tomorrow. It would be a valid reasoning, after all. She'd clearly had more than him tonight, and these days she didn't drink as much as she had back when she had still been Mossad, so she was no longer used to hard liquor in these quantities. 

And yet, it would have meant resorting to an excuse which felt cheap, and she wasn't fond of that. Yes, part of her wanted to keep it all bottled up inside and never touch the issue again, like they had always acted about this. But then there was that other part of her. The part that was so very tired of... things. Of how they were around each other and how they could be, maybe. All the dead ends they'd hit over the years and all the misunderstandings they could have cleared up long ago if they had been just a little more honest with each other.

He watched her with a sad twist to his mouth while her eyes pleaded with him. Her own words had needed a few moments to sink in with her, and now that they were out there for him to grasp, Ziva found herself scared out of her wits by what she had just said. His gaze went right under her skin, right to the place she had opened up for him, and for a few endless moments her pulse throbbed in her temples because this _had_ to be the moment where he realized how much he truly affected her, yes?

And maybe her instincts weren't that far off, really. Maybe he had seen something in her eyes after all. Because he tilted his head now and pursed his lips thoughtfully, and then he suddenly came towards her, rippling with tension like a cat on the prowl. 

"Listen," he said, so quietly that her eyes widened a little more with each of his steps, "what I want is not that complicated."

She swallowed hard and concentrated on meeting his gaze, and it turned into much more of an effort than she had expected when he leaned into her. She tried her best to ignore how close he suddenly was, with one hand braced against the wall beside her head again and the other reaching out to grasp a strand of her hair and twist it around his finger. 

Acknowledging that proximity would have meant she'd have to justify her own reaction to it -- her heated response to the roughness in his voice, suddenly coiling up deep in her belly and threatening to overwhelm her.

"The cliché, if you will. The whole nine yards. Going to bed with you, and waking up with you, and knowing what you smell like every hour of the day." He paused, pondered that thought for a moment before he leaned into her a little more. His lips almost brushed her cheek now, and she was so, so tempted to just turn her head to get closer to that mouth. "No, scratch that, I know that already. But I want to feel you and touch you all night, every night, and I want your scent to be the first thing I notice each morning, even before I open my eyes, because that's how I'll know you were there with me the whole time."

She blinked slowly; a tiny, involuntary shudder ran through her, and he smiled against her cheek because he'd noticed.

"And I want your moods, Ziva. All of them, all the time. Doesn't matter if they're good or bad. I want to rub your shoulders after a long day, and I want you to yell at me when I burn dinner and complain about my choice of movie, and I want you to say I drink too much, but you'll still join me for another glass because you know I can make you come so much harder when I'm drunk." 

Her cheeks turned a darker shade, just like that, and he chuckled and moved his mouth to the curve of her jaw. He didn't even touch her, just drank in her closeness... and yet, she suddenly felt like she was burning up. Her eyelids fluttered a little more nervously with each of his words, with each breath against her skin.

"I want to know what you taste like, right here. Right where your neck flows into your shoulder. I want to know where you are the softest and how you sound when you're stuck in a nightmare and how long you need in the bathroom on a regular morning, because the times we were on a case, they don't count." He fell silent, just breathed in her scent for a moment. Concentrated on her presence and the way he could feel her tremble from afar. And then he suddenly couldn't seem to help it, and more words fell against her cheek in a heated whisper. "And God, yes, I _do_ want to know how you sound when I make you come."

She took a deep, shuddering breath and closed her eyes while the roughness of his voice and the images it provoked washed over her. He tugged at her curls, still wrapped around his finger, and his thumb brushed her cheek so briefly that it could have just as easily been a gust of wind tickling her skin. She trembled at the minute sensation anyway, and her skin tightened and rose to meet his touch. And that tiny, shuddering reaction, that one single instant of too easy, too fast, too tempting -- that suddenly left him sobering up and drawing back.

She forced her eyes open and watched him warily, quietly; she wasn't sure how her voice would have behaved if she'd tried to speak now, so she didn't, and in response a strangely disappointed expression skittered across his face. And yes, she even understood where that particular frustration came from. Getting to her, getting under each other's skin -- that had always been the easy part between them, they both knew that. But these days, it was no longer enough, and that was the thing that suddenly made it all so difficult.

He sighed and raised a hand to rub his tired eyes. She was almost burning up with the need to touch him by now, but he had refused her before, and so she couldn't bring herself to try again.

"What I need is you, Ziva. All of you. But I'm not sure if that is compatible with your... needs. You'll have to figure that one out on your own."

He gave her a small nod and nudged her aside gently until she moved and he could open the door. The lump in her stomach sagged hard while she watched him walk away from her for the third time in one night.

*** *** ***


	2. present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How it should have been.

**_Like other types of pupae, the chrysalis stage in most butterflies is one in which there is little movement. Within the chrysalis, growth and differentiation occur._ **

*** *** ***

She tried to sleep in because she could now and because she was on the verge of nursing a hangover and most of all because getting up didn't seem like a desirable option. She ended up tossing and turning instead, always just drifting off for a short while and then jerking awake again to strangely physical dreams, intermingled with half-remembered, but very real sensations. She turned her head and stared at the clock that seemed to be stuck five minutes away from her usual time. The busy second hand crept forward, around, around, but not making real progress. Her thoughts suddenly felt the same -- ticking away while not gaining any real ground.

She wasn't sure why, but one story kept running through her busy head. A bedtime story, of all things -- one her mother had read to her often because little Ziva had asked for it again and again, eternally hungry for it like the little caterpillar in the book itself. That had been before Tali was born, and it could very well be one of her earliest childhood memories. 

She hadn't thought about this story in years. Just sometimes. Whenever she'd felt that same kind of all-consuming hunger.

Eventually, she gave up to try and calm her whirling thoughts. Five minutes after the alarm would have woken her on any other day, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She stared at her naked feet and flexed her toes while she tried to decide what to do now. In the end, she opted for a morning that would start out like any other, simply because a part of her needed the routines and the firm structure her habits gave her much more than she cared to admit.

Maybe she would take the long round for her morning run. Two miles more meant more time to think about what to do when she had to face the fact that she wouldn't drive to work like any other day, after all.

*** *** ***

For long years, she had spent her morning runs pushing herself hard because she had always needed to squeeze too much into too short a time. That one hour before work had been enough to keep her body in shape, yes. But her thoughts had always been too busy then, already filling up with paperwork and interrogations and all the other stuff she'd always taken such great care to leave behind at the doorstep when she came home in the evening. But all that baggage never went away completely, and so it usually just sat there over night, patiently waiting for her right where she had left it, only to cling to her once more as soon as she set a foot out of the house.

Now, though, she suddenly didn't have to prepare. She didn't have to think about whom to call and which lead to follow or what report to type first. She didn't even have to watch the time, and so she found herself, quite unexpectedly, at a much slower pace than usual: breathing deeper and enjoying the reverberations of her shoes hitting the ground steadily. Her skin tightened in the chill of an early morning, and her lungs filled with air that seemed fresher and cleaner than usual. 

She was well aware of the haphazard symbolism, of course. And yet, she couldn't help but enjoy the unexpected clarity this new morning brought. She had forgotten how it felt to run just for the sake of it. For the first time in years this was a mere physical thing for her -- not something that would prepare her for the tensions of the day, but something that loosened her muscles instead and eased the strain in her neck.

Slow, steady. Step after step, her strides gained more ground than usual, and eventually her whole perception narrowed down to just the grass underneath her shoes, the spray of dew on her bare legs, and the drunken, joyful song of early birds. Children's laughter. For a heartbeat, her concentration wavered, and she blinked when she realized that she had almost doubled her usual route without meaning to. She breathed out, and a slight smile tugged at the corners of her mouth while she began to make her way back home.

*** *** ***

The smile came to full bloom when she answered the phone and said his name, hoping the affection she felt all of a sudden wouldn't show too clearly. There was a pause at the other end, though, and she could hear the gears in his head grind while he listened to her heavier than usual breathing.

"Am I interrupting something?"

The question was a cold shower, and she hated the hesitancy in his voice. Hated the fact that he wondered right now if she was with someone else. Hated how carefully guarded he sounded in response. And yes, part of her hated the simple fact that was the core of their current problems: that her actions suddenly affected him as well. That she no longer had to handle just her own emotions, but someone else's. Someone who, in turn, mattered enough that she had to take great care to not hurt him again.

"I rarely answer the phone when I have that kind of company. I focus," she replied with a teasing lilt that was intended to ease his tension. And it seemed to work, because he gave her a soft chuckle in return.

"I thought you were a perfect little multitasker?"

"I'm running and talking to you. Isn't that enough multitasking for you?"

"I don't know. Can you squeeze in a few naughty thoughts that go along with the heavy breathing?"

She laughed, and for some reason it came out a little throatier than she had originally intended. Almost as if she was going along with his suggestion.

"Is that the only reason you're calling me this early, Tony?" Her question was meant to be easy and playful, but the sudden silence on his end told her the easy part of their conversation had just come to a screeching halt.

"I thought hearing you grunt was a pretty good incentive," he offered weakly, but she could almost hear him fidget over the phone, and so she remained quiet until he sighed heavily. "Listen. I don't remember every stupid thing I said last night, but I woke up with the overwhelming feeling that I made a royal ass out of myself."

"You didn't."

"Really? I do remember some pretty red light behavior up against a wall."

"That..." She closed her mouth around the first unfiltered answer that wanted out. It probably wasn't a good idea to admit that last night, she wouldn't have minded crossing that line and a few more, maybe. That part of her would have even welcomed it. It wasn't something she could admit just like that -- as a fleeting mention over the phone -- and so she found herself stuck with no good answer.

Silence on the other end while he waited for her reaction, patiently, because it had probably cost him a lot to make this phone call in the first place. He knew, much like her, that despite the lighthearted words they had some heavy issues to touch here. Issues that wouldn't just crumble to dust in the bright light of morning. Issues she couldn't really run away from, no matter how hard she might try... especially when she rounded the corner and saw him parked in front of her apartment building.

"Okay, I think this would be a good moment for you to give me a witty and politically incorrect reply and then you laugh at me and we forget this ever happened," he hinted just then. His voice was soft over the phone, playful even, but now that she had almost reached the rental car and got a good look at his face, she could see the tension around his narrowed eyes and the tight set of his mouth. Yes, this mattered a great deal indeed. "Ziva? You still there?"

She knocked softly on the driver's side window, and he turned his head, confused. His charming boy's reflexes still worked perfectly, though, and so his irritation was soon covered up by the brilliant smile he gave her so often. The one that hid so much. 

"Oh, hi," he said, and Ziva couldn't help a smile of her own when he met her eyes but kept talking to his phone. "This isn't as stalkery as it looks."

"Really?" She cocked her head at him, and the corners of her mouth twitched. Sometimes he was just like a big puppy. And this one had been caught in the act of being naughty.

He didn't reply, just stared at her cautiously, and so she tucked her phone away, leaned against the side of the car and waited patiently for him. He'd been right after all, they had some things they needed to talk about. Because from now on they would no longer be able to brush these things away under the pretense of professionalism and work and rules, and so there was a good chance they could fester and turn into something ugly if they didn't tend to them right away.

Eventually he lowered the window, and the look he gave her touched her in a weird way and left her in a strangely gentle mood. "Would you like to come up?" she asked him softly. "You take care of breakfast while I take a shower?"

He blinked and thought about it. It took him a small eternity to make up his mind, and on any other day she would have rolled her eyes at him, grabbed his collar and then simply dragged him out of the car. Today, though, was the day after last night, and last night had made things complicated. And even though she wasn't entirely sure what was going on in his head right now, she understood on a gut level why he was so torn up about this. 

It shouldn't be a hard question to answer -- not really. Not between them, not after the last few months. And yet, the answer wasn't easy these days, and it would hold too many implications, one way or the other.

The tiniest spark of nervousness fluttered in her stomach when he nodded eventually and got out of the car; suddenly she was very aware of her skimpy running gear and the way he looked at her, and she was no longer sure this was such a good idea. Especially when his gaze strayed to her mouth and came to rest there. 

She felt the overwhelming urge to turn around and run a few more miles before she faced this... faced him.

*** *** ***

The hint of uneasiness was hard to shake once it had reared its ugly head, and even the long, hot shower didn't help. Her shoulder muscles tensed up little by little, and soon she found herself stuck somewhere between overwhelming hunger and stomachache. Every bit of emotional ground she had gained on her run seemed to crumble away and slosh down the drain along with sweat and soapy water, and the turmoil in her head came down to one simple fact: that she wasn't sure having him here, now, was such a good idea. Not when she felt so confused and raw about all of this. All of _them_. But it had been her own choice, and the reasoning behind it was still solid: they had to start somewhere.

She dressed quickly and pondered about makeup while she brushed out her hair so it could dry on its own. In the end, she decided against it and ignored the persistent little voice that told her she was doing this on purpose and just because she knew he liked her face better bare.

*** *** ***

The tantalizing scent of fresh pancakes hit her as soon as she left the bathroom, and even though her stomach rumbled loudly in response, she froze in her tracks, horrified for a second. Her mind came up with too many scenarios that weren't pleasant, simply because Tony was much like a big, messy child at times. His own kitchen was spanking clean, yes, but he never cooked at home. She'd seen the junk piled high on his work table, though, the one spot in his apartment that had felt busily frequented, and it had mirrored the insides of his office drawers a little too well. So, yes, despite the need for nourishment she suddenly hesitated to step into her own kitchen because she wasn't entirely sure what to expect.

To her surprise, though, it wasn't chaos she found. He'd put all the ingredients back to where he'd found them, and there were no oil spatters or flour strewn about. In fact, it looked like he had been painstakingly careful _not_ to make a mess.

She watched him while he concentrated on pouring batter and flipping pancakes, and it was strange, really, but the restless hunger deep in her belly curled up and settled down while she gorged herself on his sight.

"You did not have to cook," she said eventually, and he turned his head and gave her a smile that got to her even more than the way his expression softened at her sight.

"You had eggs. You had blueberries," he shrugged. "Seemed like a natural choice." His gaze lingered on her, and the warmth in his eyes tickled her skin and left her weirdly uncertain all of a sudden. "And you look good."

She blinked, then looked away and tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear. Stupid nervous tingle in her belly. Stupid Ziva, really. When had she begun to react to his charms like that?

"I would have expected worse on your end, after last night," she replied eventually and sat down at the kitchen table while he flipped the last pancake. "Did you get enough sleep?"

He grimaced and ducked his head. "Some. Not enough." By which he probably meant a couple of hours, followed by a copious amount of tossing and turning. Which sounded oddly familiar. "You?"

"Not as much as I would have liked," she admitted, and he glanced at her again. There was a strange flicker in his eyes that told her he was tempted to say something, but then suppressed the remark.

She understood the silence, of course. There were so many things sharing the room with them lately, ghosts that needed to be addressed and dealt with at one point, but much like him she just wasn't sure how to do this. How much to tell him or how to say it, even. They had shared a lot over the past few weeks, so many things she wouldn't have thought possible even at the beginning of this very year. And yet, despite the fact that there was this new, liberating ease between them now, there were still all those years between them where they _hadn't_ talked. Hadn't even tried. And sometimes she wasn't sure if they had a real chance to ever break that pattern of habit and neglect.

Her nervousness came crawling back, clawed its way up her neck and made her fidget. Her caterpillar skin itched-itched-itched suddenly, too small, too tight, too--

"I had many thoughts," she blurted out while her fingertips traced the grain of the kitchen table, "about the things you said last night."

He slipped the last pancake onto the pile and pretended he hadn't heard her while Ziva watched him curiously, waiting for a reaction. She didn't get one, but she saw the minute tension in his jaw that a casual watcher probably would have missed. No, he didn't seem to be ready yet to talk about this.

"I said a lot of stuff last night," he shrugged eventually, and she knew that tone of voice. It was the one he always used when he wanted to make his actions appear less important than they were. There was a weird softness to his voice, though, and it left her just as unsure as he appeared. "I was drunk, okay?"

"I noticed." Her dry remark didn't win her the usual fake-innocent grin he used to cover up his messes; this time, he just shot her a carefully guarded glance. And all of a sudden, she felt a bone-deep tiredness. 

"Tony," she sighed and rubbed the tense spot between her eyebrows, wondering if they would ever get this right. 

For some reason, that tired mutter of his name got her what she had been looking for, though: a shift in his posture that said maybe they could be okay, for now. Maybe they weren't quite all right yet, but at least they were verging on functional. 

He put the plate of pancakes on the table, then sat down at the other end of it, handed her a fork and beamed at her, as if he knew exactly how easily that smile of his would distract her.

"Syrup?" he asked in his best conspirator's voice, and she pointed at the cupboard, watching him quietly while he got up again and rummaged through her cupboard as if it were his. Weird, but she didn't even mind. Instead, her skin tingled with a sudden rush of anticipation.

*** *** ***

He insisted on doing the dishes, even though she tried to tell him it was fine if he left that for later. Maybe because it gave his hands and brain something other to do than worry. The mood between them was strangely playful and relaxed, and she wasn't entirely sure how that had happened. She just knew that at one point, possibly during the fight over the last pancake that he'd let her win, they'd set aside their shared unease and the looming shadows of last night.

Now... for now they were back to the comfortable display of friendship she was used from him, with just a hint of deeper emotions tucked away, somewhere, just out of reach. And it was weird, but that tiny, whispered possibility of a maybe suddenly left her itchy and greedy for more. 

She'd gotten so much from him over the years. His support and his trust, gained long ago, had been her rock in a stormy sea and the very foundation of their partnership... and yet, it had never seemed enough. Then, at one point she could no longer name, he had given her true friendship, willingly, as if it were no sacrifice at all. But for some reason that also hadn't been enough to quench a need she couldn't quite define. She was like that tiny caterpillar in her once-favorite bedtime story when it came to their partnership: gobbling up more and more of what he had to offer each day... and yet, each day she found herself with an even bigger craving.

Last night, he had offered her love, of all things. And now, in the bright light of morning, she couldn't help but wonder if that would finally be enough or if it would leave her aching instead.

She stared at his hands and bare forearms with the rolled-up sleeves while he cleaned the last plate and then handed it to her to dry. He had good hands. Huge, but well-shaped, and strong. She'd always liked his hands. She'd felt their strength before, numerous times. But never more strongly than when he'd grasped her hand and tried to ground her, that one night when she'd dreamed--

"Hey," he murmured, and she stirred and met his gaze with wide eyes and her heart pounding in her throat, because that night, he had looked at her in a certain way, and she hadn't even realized it. "You okay?"

His voice was so gentle all of a sudden, matching his smile. When she didn't reply right away, he reached out and brushed a stubborn strand of hair behind her ear. His touch to her cheek was brief, just a quick tap of his thumb, but suddenly she wanted him to make more out of this so badly. Wanted him to look at her _that_ way again, just so she could notice it this time and react properly and not shove him away. Wanted him to slip that big hand of his to her neck and then pull her closer and put a firm end to the nervous tiptoeing. 

She'd let him, in a heartbeat. Encourage him, even, because she still wasn't sure she could take this step on her own.

He blinked when she raised her own hand and covered his before he could pull away again, and crippling need roared up inside her. Something in his face shifted, too, and some of last night's conflict resurfaced. Only this time neither of them was drunk, and it wasn't dark, and his face showed too many of his emotions. She wasn't sure about her own expression, but she had a feeling it mirrored his. And maybe that was the true root of his struggle.

There wasn't much ground she needed to cover to invade his personal space. It had always been like that between them, from the very beginning, but now... now they had grown so much closer emotionally, and these days it often seemed to her as if the physical distance between them had accommodated that and shrunk to merely a flimsy barrier of modesty. 

She didn't even have to step forward this time. She just had to turn a bit and shift towards him, and because he anticipated that, like he always did, he moved with her. And so she suddenly found herself with her back against the counter and Tony leaning into her, and oh, that barely hidden strength of his and the sudden heat radiating from him, it was so incredibly tempting... She stared at his mouth just as his lips parted, and the mere tingle low in her belly turned into a hot rush, just like that. Her weakness would have been embarrassing, if he hadn't returned her gaze with the same kind of need he drew from her.

Her pulse pounded harshly in her ears. His breath was so warm on her mouth that she thought for a heartbeat he had bridged the last of the gap between them already. Just a little tilt of her head was all she'd need now, just the slightest brush of her lips against his...

He breathed out slowly and murmured her name against her mouth before he drew back, not completely, just enough to avoid a kiss.

"I'm sorry," he muttered and leaned his forehead against hers, and she laughed, the tense sound speaking loudly of her disbelief. "I'm so goddamn sorry, you have no idea," he repeated, the words falling heavily between them, "But I don't think this is a good idea right now. Not with Gibbs, who has run off to god knows where, and the job--"

"There is no more job and no more Gibbs," she interrupted him harshly, the first tendrils of anger sneaking into her voice. Of all the poor excuses to use...

But the strangely intimate softness in his voice never wavered, and now he raised his head enough to meet her eyes and make his point. "Exactly." His gaze, in stark contrast to his tone, was all steel and firm decision; his fingertips though, on a much more instinctual level, defied that resolve and snuck into her hair to press gently against the base of her neck. She wasn't sure if he did that without noticing it or maybe on purpose, just because he knew how easily it would distract her. He looked at her for a few endless moments, and eventually his expression softened along with his tone. She wasn't sure how he could do this: touch her and lean into her and look at her like that... and then not take this any further. "You're losing family right now. Again."

She frowned at him and let his words sink in, and it took her a while until they made sense. Then they stirred a hot rush of anger in her, and she pressed it out through gritted teeth. "You think I'm just offering myself to keep my family together?"

He sighed and shook his head and gave her the kind of look that said it wasn't what he'd meant, not really. He even ran his hand down her arm, soothing, calming, because he knew her. Knew how close she was to erupting. But for the briefest moment she saw something else flicker in his eyes -- suppressed before it came to full bloom, but still, it had been there for a heartbeat. She'd seen that kind of look from him before. The kind of look that told her the question came pretty close to hitting the mark. 

She knew the mere thought alone hurt him. And yet, she suddenly felt like baring her teeth and snarling at him for insinuating it. No, for even thinking it.

"So who's next? McGee? Abby? How can you even--" She took a deep breath and shut her mouth hard before she'd start yelling. It wasn't fair. She couldn't blame the whole fallacy of their relationship on him, and this was not the time for fighting. And despite the nauseating anger he'd just drawn out of her, he was still too close, and still her best friend, and she still longed for that stupid man.

He knew all that; she could feel it. He knew that she didn't pour her anger into his face right now because there wasn't enough distance between them and because he kept stroking her arm, and it seemed like a reflex for him to take this just a little further. Let his fingertips run down to her wrist and mingle with hers. Her body reacted with just as much confusion as her mind, and she knew they should back off now, really. This wasn't a lover's quarrel, and the physical intimacy wasn't helping. But neither of them seemed to be able to break the contact, now that it had been established, and so he kept touching her gently instead, until it was hard not to drown in a dozen different emotions at once.

"Ziva," he sighed quietly, and she shook her head against his cheek, frustrated.

"I just don't understand. I thought--" She bit off her own words again, because this was too much, and too fast, and too vocal, and they never did the talking thing. Especially when she suddenly found herself fumbling with a question she wasn't sure she actually wanted answered.

Not that her silence made any difference. He'd always understood her on a disturbingly non-vocal level, and of course he heard this unspoken query as well. And so he answered, eventually. 

"As tempting as it is to have a few rounds of incredible sex with you," he muttered, and his voice, like his body, was stuck halfway between rational and intimate, "I'd like it to happen for all the right reasons. And you being vulnerable is not a good enough reason in my book."

"I'm not--"

"Yes, you are." There was a strange firmness to his voice, and she reacted weirdly to it: stuck somewhere between rebellion and submission. She'd always been one to make her own decisions and not let others handle them for her. But a tiny part of her had to admit grudgingly that he was right about one thing: sex for the sake of taking her mind off bad things, that wasn't a new concept for her. It had helped before, even though in the end it had always meant little and she had rarely looked back, except with embarrassment at her own weakness.

And so she gave in, defeated, and her shoulders sagged when a simple word punched a hole into her defenses: "Maybe."

He chuckled and squeezed the hand he still held, and it confused her how he could do that -- catch her every time she dropped the ball, just like that, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. 

"That must have been painful," he teased, and she turned her head to meet his eyes. He looked at her all chipper and amused on the outside, but there was something else still lingering underneath that expression. Something that told her he wouldn't have resisted too hard if she'd urged him just a little more. And that little hint of regret in his eyes sparked her own longing once more. 

For a heartbeat she felt so incredibly tempted again, by his pretty mouth and his warmth and his strength. But if she did this now... no. It wouldn't be fair to him. Not as long as she couldn't rule out completely that he may have a point. Because if it did turn out to be something she wanted just for comfort and not love... oh god, he probably did not have a good opinion of Adam.

She blinked and tried not to let the sudden rush of emotion show. Which wasn't easy, since he was still close enough to share her breath. And it didn't look like he would be the one to back off any time soon.

"How do you know the sex would be incredible?" she asked, and it was strange, but for some reason that did the trick and made him laugh. So odd. Talking about this kind of thing -- the kind that was intimate for everyone else -- had always served pretty well to keep the distance between them. This moment, intense as it may have been, turned out to be no different from all the years they had piled up between them. The way he drew back now and raised his chin to look at her with a thoughtful expression -- it told her loud and clear that the moment had shifted, away from the swirling sea of possibilities and back to... normal. Whatever that was for them these days.

"Observation and deduction," he said, and she snorted at the rude little twinkle in his eyes. "I know what I can do. And I certainly watched enough of you over the years to know a thing or two about your flexibility."

For a moment she returned his smile out of reflex, because this kind of teasing was so very familiar. That was their old thing, their natural behavior around each other. Except these days it didn't mean as much as it used to, and at times it even interfered with what they had become. Right now, it frustrated her to no end. 

She sighed and squeezed his hand in response. "Then why do you have to be such a disgustingly noble person?" she murmured, and while the question rolled off her lips, she couldn't fight the annoying urge to raise her free hand and put it to his chest. It had become such a habit between them, this touching thing. There had been a time when she had looked pointedly at his intrusive hand whenever he did that because it had always crossed a line. These days, though, the same lines had become blurry, and she hardly noticed his touches as something outside the norm anymore. She wasn't surprised when he didn't even look at her hand, just gave her a shaky little laugh and leaned into her once more to press his lips to her temple briefly.

"I'm not that noble," he said, and she turned her head so she could rub her cheek against his for a second, ensnared by the undercurrent of longing in his voice that dragged her down a little deeper into her own maelstrom. 

Oh, that man. He really had no idea.

*** *** ***

For a long time Ziva David had not been particularly observant about Shabbath traditions. She had, in fact, done her best to avoid most of the Jewish rituals.

Years ago, back in Israel, things had been different. Her father had made things different then. He, the man who never hesitated to defy every custom of his people if it ensured a successful mission, had transformed into one of the most traditional men she had ever met in the confines of his own home. And for the longest time Ziva hadn't even realized that there were two sides to Eli David. Two faces. One she had loved her whole life -- the other she couldn't live with.

Things had changed, long before he'd been killed. That one summer, when she'd gone back because he had demanded it of her... that summer had destroyed many things. Masks had slipped then, traditions had become meaningless, and the ways of her father had suddenly turned into a mockery of the values she'd grown up with.

She'd made her own weekend traditions, later, once she'd begun to transform into an American citizen. She still focused on the weekends, if she wasn't on duty, and on resting and setting work aside. But unlike the religious traditions she had grown up with, Ziva David's own traditions were solely there for her few friends and the things she loved to do. She always took great care to settle all her mundane chores during the week. Grocery shopping, laundry, even the gym, all of that came to a screeching halt once she got off work on Fridays. She wasn't too meticulous about sunset, because more often than not she didn't get to leave the office before that, but once she walked into her apartment, she pushed aside the things she needed to do and made room for what she wanted to do instead. 

It wasn't until her friend Hannah canceled their weekend trip to an art exhibition that Ziva realized just how much time she suddenly had on her hands. For a brief moment she thought about going alone, but in the end she just wasn't in the mood. Not if there wasn't someone around she could talk to, even if it was just about mundane things. And Hannah... yes, their talks would have been mundane. Hannah was one of those astonishingly normal girls, after all, despite the fact that she worked for NCIS. She was one of "Fred's Angels", as they jokingly called themselves, down in accounting, which seemed oddly fitting because Hannah became easily confused whenever she had to deal with people instead of numbers. Maybe that was one of the reasons Ziva liked her: the fact that Hannah was one of the few people who would never lie to her, simply because she didn't know how.

She sighed and deleted Hannah's text message. Then she made new plans for the weekend. Oddly enough, for the first time in years, these plans meant dealing with all the mundane chores she had put aside for the past few days.

*** *** ***

It was almost time for Monday's lunch, and Ziva had been just about to put the finishing touches to a spanking clean bathroom when her doorbell rang. (At least that was what Tony had called it once. For some reason she had ended up adopting the phrase, even though he'd reacted weirdly to her question what bathrooms had to do with discipline.) She didn't expect anyone, and so she hesitated for a moment; then she put the fresh towels aside for later.

Her unannounced visitor jumped slightly when she opened the door, as if he'd just been about to give up and leave because he didn't want to be here in the first place. At least that was what his whole posture said. His face wasn't too far behind.

"Ned! What are you doing here?"

Dorneget squirmed even more and seemed to be willing to squeeze into the nearest hole, just to avoid answering that question. "Agent David..." he replied and then promptly ran out of words again when she gave him a short-lived smile.

"I'm no longer an agent, Dorneget," she said, and the tall man lowered his head. He looked really guilty all of a sudden.

"Yeah. That's... kind of why I'm here."

She hadn't noticed the box in his hands until he handed it to her, awkwardly, like a child who had broken something and now tried to confess to his mother. Only it hadn't been Ned Dorneget who'd done the damage.

"Director Vance asked me to... to, uhm..."

She blinked, then reached for the box. "To clean out our desks?" she offered quietly, and he started fidgeting so hard that he almost dropped his delivery before she could take it from him.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, and Ziva's mouth twisted into a sad smile.

"It's all right, Ned. This is not your fault." He looked at her with wide eyes that turned him into the world's biggest puppy, and she sighed and patted his arm. "Do not worry."

"I don't. I mean, I know you guys will probably fall on your feet and find new jobs in a heartbeat, because you're good." He hesitated, but then apparently decided that this would be his last chance to say it anyway. "I'll just miss you around, I guess."

She tried to reply, but found that she couldn't because her throat was suddenly tight. The words she wanted to use weren't the ones that threatened to pour out, so in the end she just nodded. Cleared her throat. Looked down, at the box that contained the things that inevitably piled up over the years in someone's desk. 

"Me too, Ned. Me too."

He nodded, not quite as awkward this time. "Okay, I'll just-- oh, hang on, Hannah said to tell you she's sorry she had to cancel."

Ziva tilted her head, surprised, and waited for more of an explanation. When none came, she asked, "Do you know if she's all right? I tried to call her, but she hasn't answered yet."

"Yeah, I think so," Dorneget shrugged. "She was just a bit rattled after that talk with Parsons..." His voice drifted off and his eyes widened when he saw something in her face shift. "You don't think she--"

 _... was afraid to see me after he told her it would be unwise...?_ She shook her head, quietly, and this time it was him who reached out to touch her elbow cautiously, hesitantly.

"Agent David..."

"It's fine," she said, and for a heartbeat she was confused because the words didn't feel fine. She gave Ned a decisive nod. "It is not unexpected of him to threaten the people connected to us." The briefest of pauses, then she added, "And Hannah does love her job."

He looked at her as if his bottom lip would start to quiver any second now, and she shook her head again, resolutely this time. "She will call me when she's ready," she stated firmly, as if there wasn't even a chance of that not happening. "Thank you for bringing me... this."

*** *** ***

Later, when he had apologized about five more times and she had assured him just as often that she would be okay, when she finally got the chance to go back into her apartment and close the door and lean against it, the simple cardboard box suddenly felt very heavy in her arms.

Sighing, she sat down on her couch and balanced the box gingerly on her knees. It seemed to mock her, with its flaps not completely closed, just gaping enough so she could see a bit of the mess inside. The mess that had still been in her desk just a few hours ago. The mess of almost eight years. 

Weird how such a small thing could make it all so much more... final.

She put the box down on the couch beside her and pulled the flaps open, and the first thing she saw was something she had looked at almost every day for a long time now: the picture of a teenage Tony, smiling awkwardly for the camera. Her heart stuttered for a moment, and she reached for the photo and brushed her thumb along the edge carefully. She hadn't even realized before that what had seemed like a mere career decision might not just affect her job after all, but her friendships as well. Her private life.

Young Tony smiled at her in a way adult Tony rarely did, and her heart stuttered once more when she realized she'd have to give the picture back now.

*** *** ***

Sorting through the contents of the box left Ziva in a weirdly melancholy state, and even though she was more than aware of the symbolism in it, she suddenly had the next project in her belated spring cleaning spree: sort through the contents of her closet. Throw away old stuff, make room for new, and pack away the things she could no longer bear to look at simply because she had worn them at the wrong time, in the wrong place.

She'd made her way halfway through her wardrobe when her phone began to ring frantically, already foreshadowing Abby's voice tripping all over itself while she spurted out apologies and reassurances. It took Ziva a few minutes to figure out that apparently she had heard about both Dorneget's visit and Hannah walking out on her, and now Abby drowned in guilt and felt the overwhelming need to reassure Ziva that she didn't care what Parsons threatened them with professionally. Her job wasn't the same anyway, now that her whole family had up and left, and so she would stick to her friends like gum on a shoe, no matter what came out of it. 

The statement left Ziva smiling, even though it wasn't the most flattering picture to paint. But it was a very Abby thing to say, and she already missed the Abby things. By the end of the phone call she was exhausted, though -- drowning in heaps of reassurance of friendship and loyalty and forced to confirm at least half a dozen times that, yes, she would most certainly make it to this Friday's Get-Drunk-Together-On-A-Regular-Basis meeting, and no, there was no further need to talk about this. No, really.

She had barely put down her phone when it rang again -- McGee this time, who apologized just as profusely because apparently he had been the one to slip Abby the news about Dorneget's visit. More reassurances followed, this time from Ziva. Thankfully, it didn't take quite as long to 'talk McGee down', as Tony would have put it, and he didn't offer to listen if she wanted to talk about it quite as insistently as Abby had done, but by the end of that call she still swore that she wouldn't pick up any others for at least the rest the day. Except, maybe, if there were one from Tony. Because she liked how his voice sounded when he thought he was just talking to her, and because at times he had a talent to not exhaust her.

And that was when she suddenly realized Tony wouldn't call. Because he was just that kind of guy. Because now that things were settled between them for the time being, he would step back, and he would give her all the space he believed she needed. And he would wait until maybe she were to call him, but would never complain if she didn't, because he thought this was the right thing to do. 

It certainly wouldn't be the first summer like that.

*** *** ***

She did end up talking to someone else, later, after she had spent a couple of hours on the internet and came out of it completely frustrated. It was difficult to just casually browse for possible new career options (a thing she'd never had to do in her entire life) without getting redirected to numerous sites that wanted her profile and credentials and then ship her off to the next employer right away.

Ziva couldn't help thinking that all of this was comparable to ending a relationship: she wasn't ready yet to commit again or even enter the 'actively looking' stage. She was far from coming to terms with what she had left behind, and right now she didn't have the slightest idea what to look for anyway, simply because she had _liked_ her job. It had made her happy, most of the time.

A notification popped up and informed her that one of her chat contacts had signed on, and she was tempted to close the program just to avoid any further questions or pep talks. But something in the way the user icon glared at her in the fruitless attempt to smile for the camera let her reconsider, and to her own surprise she even opened a chat window herself.

_'Hey.'_

_'Hey, Ziva. What's wrong?'_

She shook her head and bit back a smile. Yes, there was a reason she liked that man. He was a lot smarter than he had seemed at first. Certainly a lot smarter than Tony believed him to be.

_'Why does something have to be wrong for me to say hello, Damon?'_

_'Well, for one this isn't our bimonthly what-have-you-been-up-to and are-you-married-yet checkup...'_

She laughed out loud this time. Chuckled some more when he added that she'd just sounded like there was something going on.

_'You get that from one word?'_

_'Have to. You don't use that many.'_

She told him, eventually -- as much as she could, at least. And thankfully, he just listened. He also didn't shower her in fake condolences. All he said was, _'Well, that sucks'_ , and the simple statement left her smiling once more. Trust Damon Werth to cut to the core.

_'You have any idea what you want to do now?'_

_'Not yet,'_ she replied, and she was sure he could hear the heavy sigh even through type chat. He knew her long enough, after all. _'To be honest, I never thought I would have to think about that.'_

 _'Don't I know that one...'_ This time it was Ziva who sensed the sudden wave of sadness that engulfed her friend at the other end of the chat. He had lived for being a Marine. She often felt like he still hadn't completely dealt with the hole that loss had left behind in his life. She wondered how she would do. _'Have you decided if you want to stick around yet?'_

She blinked, confused. _'What?'_

_'Just a thought. I mean, what's keeping you in DC now?'_

_'Do you want to get rid of me?'_ she typed, and this time she almost wished they had made this a video chat just so she could look at him sternly.

 _'Ha. What makes you think I'm not about to ask you to move to Pittsburgh?'_

_'Because the last time I looked you were dating a very lovely Budō trainer, and you were very smitten with her.'_

He sent her a huge smilie that seemed pretty smug, so she assumed the dating was still going well. Then he started typing again, and from the time it took him to finish the message, she could tell that he was back to serious again and struggled with words he didn't handle all day. 

_'Look, I'm just talking about me here, okay. You know that I would still give my right arm to do my duty for my country again. But you're different than me. Sort of.'_

She frowned, then read the text again, but couldn't figure out what he wanted to tell her. _'What do you mean?'_

_'I think before you decide what to do, you need to figure out if this will stay your country.'_

She stared at the line until it blurred before her eyes and only snapped out of it when he typed, _'Did I lose you?'_

_'No, just confused me. I thought I already made that decision when I became an American citizen.'_

_'Yeah, but didn't you make that decision for your team?'_

And this time, she had no idea what to say. She simply had no good answer.

*** *** ***

"Hey." His voice was soft, relaxed, and Ziva couldn't help the smile when she heard the pleased note that told her he was glad she'd called.

"Hey yourself," she replied and stretched out on her couch. It wasn't the first time she had talked to Tony this week, and the past few calls had shown her that sometimes it was weirdly easy to forget the time with him, so it didn't seem like the worst idea to get comfortable right away. She heard something slam shut at the other end. "Am I calling at a bad time?"

"No, it's fine, I can go back to practice later."

"Mhmm. What are you practicing?"

For a second his hesitation was palpable, and she was just about to gloss over the question and steer the talk somewhere else when he replied after all. "Piano."

She blinked, then closed her eyes, concentrating on the unusual tone to his voice she couldn't quite decipher. "I didn't know you still played."

"Ziva, I have a piano in my living room."

She chuckled. "Having one does not mean using it, Tony."

"I will throw that one right back at you the next time we talk about your pink friend in your nightstand..."

This time she laughed out loud, and his chuckle against her ear left her suddenly all warm and fuzzy. Strange how they had settled into these talks -- much more easily than she would have expected.

"You didn't tell me you played."

"Yeah, well, I'm not good enough to brag."

"Like that stopped you in every other area?" He sighed, fake-exasperated, and she chuckled and snuggled more comfortably into her pillow. "When did you start playing again?"

"Few months ago. Had a piano tuner come over one day, been slowly getting my groove back." He fell silent for a heartbeat, and she could feel him wrestling with the words that wanted out. Losing, apparently, because he quietly added, "I think that was when you were in Israel."

She blinked. Curled up tight and just listened to his quiet breathing for a while. Her stomach fluttered around the unspoken concession in his words: that he'd had his own demons to deal with back then.

The silence stretched between them for a few heartbeats more, and just last week it would have soon turned awkward. But they'd had a few talks since then, and they had gotten a lot better at handling the other's words... and the not-words. Weird that it had taken not seeing each other every day to reach that point.

"Will you play something for me?"

And just like that, the other end of the line plummeted into a bottomless hole of silence. 

"I'm still out of practice, Ziva," he replied eventually. There was a cautious tone to his voice suddenly, and she could feel him back away word by word, as if he had allowed her an unplanned peek he already regretted.

And yet, she needed to know. 

It seemed so silly. Girly. Like something out of a cheap romance movie, only there wasn't any romance involved. And yet... and yet, she was suddenly deeply curious about his approach to music.

"Please?" His sigh was heavy, and she knew he was almost ready to give in. And maybe it wasn't entirely fair, but she did the one thing that had worked with him before -- lowered her voice until it held just enough intimacy to get his attention. "You were the one who came up with this whole sharing thing, remember?"

"Ouch! Nasty rhetorical tricks up your sleeve, milady!" 

The complaint was half-hearted, though, and she heard him adjust his seat and put the fall back up even while he was still busy grumbling. "Okay, I'll put the phone up, one second." He paused for a heartbeat, then added, "If you laugh, this conversation is over. Forever."

"I won't laugh, Tony."

"That's what they all say."

"Tony..."

"Shush now."

"Yes, sir." 

She smiled and rolled to her back, suddenly curious what piece he would choose. She genuinely had no idea what to expect. She wasn't even sure if he was more the type for classical pieces or experimental jazz. She heard him fiddle with the phone, and his sudden anxiety reverberated so loudly that Ziva would have loved to reach out to him now and touch him until his nerves settled.

The first notes, when they came, were so soft that she hardly heard them at first. His choice of song surprised her: a very quiet, simple piece that didn't really feel like something Tony would even know. At least that was how it seemed at first. Soon enough, though, she closed her eyes and pressed the phone to her ear because there was a lot more to this song than just quiet melancholy. Note by note it grew a little more intense, a little more urgent, dragging her along and luring her over the edge of the cliff until her heart stuttered because she was more than ready to jump with him. 

The way he handled music was not what she'd expected at all. So very different from his photography, and so much more emotional. She hadn't known he could touch music like this -- quietly, patiently, like he had all the time in the world. He'd never seemed like the type of man who could handle a piece like this and have the patience to just let it unfold naturally, heartbeat by heartbeat, until it was laid out just right. Until his emotions poured out of him and into the music, infusing it with the same intensity he sometimes had about him when they fought. A soft shudder ran through Ziva, and her eyelids fluttered when the same fingertips that had struck the keys so softly at first suddenly chased the notes, pulling, drawing, stirring her own emotions along with the melody, until her heart raced in her throat and she had to press her mouth tightly shut so she wouldn't make a sound.

Silence fell between them after the last note rang out, and for a while neither of them said a word. It wasn't for lack of trying, at least on Ziva's side. She just couldn't. And she had a feeling that Tony wasn't too sure what to say either.

 _"Nuvole Bianche,"_ he murmured eventually, and she blinked, confused by the sudden urge to wipe her face. She hadn't cried. Not really.

"What?"

"White Clouds. That's what it's called." His voice was a soft caress against her cheek. She'd rarely heard him this tentative in all the years she'd known him. "But you know that. You speak Italian."

"Yes," she murmured back, still fighting the raw emotion that threatened to burst out of her if she chose just one wrong word now. In the end, she laughed weakly, and for some reason that helped and eased the strain on her heart a little. _"This_ is how you sound when you're out of practice...?"

He chuckled, and she had a very vivid image in her mind of how he'd probably run his hand through his hair right now and looked down with shifty eyes, like a boy who hadn't expected to be told he'd actually done well. 

"No mocking. I like that."

She snorted, and he laughed some more, and somehow that settled things between them in a way that made anything more unnecessary.

"Now then," he said, and she could hear him stretch while he moved over to his own couch, "since I was a good fairy and granted your wish, you will now have to indulge me and one of my all-time favorite small talk classics. I'll even let you pick which one. It's either 'how was your day?'..."

"... or...?"

"What are you wearing?"

*** *** ***

_Get-drunk-together Friday_ was barely a couple of hours old, but had already lived up to its name completely. Palmer had been giddy before he'd even had his first sip. Abby was a happy puppy from the minute the last of them had arrived, especially once Tony joined them, and he... well, Tony looked almost radiant. Happy to see his friends and former team mates. McGee was affected by all of that soon enough; at one point he was so far removed from his usual self that he even broke into a short, messy duet with Ducky. The older man was mostly sober due to health reasons. A good mood, though, didn't necessarily need an alcohol solvent to spill over.

Ziva herself was nearing a high level of intoxication very soon, and she had to concentrate on not letting it show. When Abby had called her last night, to make sure she would show up, Ziva had suddenly gotten nervous for numerous reasons -- a heady mix of emotions, too many memories, and anxieties based on lack of a clear path for her future. Most of all, though, she'd suddenly realized she'd see Tony again, and that had left her restless. 

She simply hadn't been sure what to expect. It had all seemed so much easier when they'd simply worked together. But since then, many things had happened, and they had talked so much over the past week. Sometimes just about casual, everyday things, and sometimes... sometimes they had touched a more personal level, not because one of them had been nosy or needled the other, like they'd used to do at work. Some things had simply come up between them, just like that. Had been touched briefly, opened, closed and put aside again, and then brought back, until they had finally begun to actually talk about them. 

Granted, all of this had been a lot easier over the phone than in person. Easier to not look at Tony while she told him stories of her sister or what her mother's hair had smelled like. And he had seemed to feel the same way, because gradually his words had gotten less superficial as well. Ziva liked that. He was the last person she would have ever expected to touch her this way, but yes -- she liked talking to him this way, a lot. And she liked that he knew how to listen. And now, she'd see him again, and she hadn't figured out yet how their newfound intimacy would translate once he was right there in front of her, real and tangible and not just a disembodied voice.

As it turned out, there had been no need for nervousness, and they were more or less the same they'd ever been. Except that maybe he smiled at her a little more often that night, and it wasn't the broad, arrogant smile he sometimes hid behind, but one that was a lot softer and a lot more genuine. 

And maybe their hands strayed a little more than usual, too. Just a little, here and there, with hers running down his arm or his brushing a strand of hair back and tucking it behind her ear. There were also the flutters in her stomach, which stubbornly refused to calm down completely. Probably because he kept smiling at her. And she kept touching him.

*** *** ***

"I had a job interview today," McGee admitted somewhere during his careful maintenance of a pleasant buzz. "With an IT security company. But I think I botched it on purpose."

Abby cooed and rubbed his back, and then she said it was good because that meant he could come back as soon as Director Vance had cleared up things and they were all back to normal. Ziva blinked and exchanged a glance with McGee, who suddenly looked like he wanted to die. She couldn't blame him. She had no idea either how they could convey to Abby that this time it was permanent. That they would have to move on and find new jobs eventually, because this time the team was dismantled for good. They'd accepted full responsibility for many things that had gone wrong over the years. They had walked away to keep Gibbs out of jail, and it had been a minor miracle that they hadn't been thrown in on the spot. There was no reality in which Vance could simply wave this away, re-hire them and pretend it had never happened.

"How are you guys doing with the job market?"

Tony shrugged in response to McGee's question, and Ziva turned her head and looked at him because she'd felt that shrug against her side. Weird. She hadn't even realized before how close he kept to her tonight, but now, as his arm brushed hers on the table, it was suddenly hard to ignore. She felt funny, and she had to fight the urge to lean into him. Touch him. It seemed like the natural thing to do, and that made it so much harder not to give in. They hadn't crossed that particular line, after all. Not officially.

"I have given the matter some thought," he replied, slurring the words, but still managing to convey a certain grandeur, "and have come to the conclusion that I will fill the only position fit for the last of the DiNozzos: I'll be a lion tamer." He blinked and scrunched up his nose, thinking hard for a moment. "Or a bra designer. Whichever has an opening first. I'm flexible."

He raised his glass, grinned, then knocked it back in one gulp. Ziva blinked slowly and stared at her own hands that played with her half-empty glass on the table. McGee snorted and Tony laughed out loud when Abby glared because that hadn't been what she'd wanted to hear.

"I thought about going back to Israel." 

Such a simple statement. And yet, it tore through the relaxed mood like a gunshot.

"No! You can't do that!" Abby yelled over the murmurs of the men, all wide eyes and panic-stricken face, and Ziva rubbed the tight spot between her eyebrows to chase the sudden tiredness away.

"I'm not saying I will, Abby," she stated quietly. It took an effort not to panic because a moment ago she had felt Tony all warm and pliant beside her, and now he... wasn't. He was still there, physically. But even though he hadn't really backed away from her, she suddenly felt a wall between them that hadn't been there for a long time. _You can never be a butterfly, my Ziva._ She swallowed hard. Shook her head. "It was just a thought."

"But _why?_ You can't--"

Ziva spread her fingers against the table's surface, flexing them slowly. _"Because_ it's not that easy to get a job in our line of work without a security clearance, Abby. And this will stick to me for a while." She hesitated, all too aware of Abby's watering eyes. 

She shouldn't have said it. Shouldn't even have mentioned it unless it were about to turn into an actual thing. But these thoughts had followed her around for a few days now, and now she'd finally reached the point where she couldn't keep them hidden away any longer. And she was just too damn used to answering truthfully these days. "Doesn't mean I will," she added quietly, but even she had to admit it sounded lame.

*** *** ***

The rest of the night would end up being a blur, mostly. Except that Tony was all tense and quiet beside her now, and his smiles were a lot less frequent. And he didn't touch her when they said goodbye.

It was disconcerting to realize that she had hoped for more.

*** *** ***

She would always remember her mother's voice as gentle as it was back when she'd told Ziva the story of the little caterpillar, who had gorged himself on so much food that he ended up with a stomachache. The first time her mother had read the story to her, the little girl who couldn't read for herself yet had burst into tears and felt so sorry for the sick caterpillar. But her mother had found the right words to soothe her, and by the time they'd reached the end of the story, little Ziva had fallen in love with it. And it had taught her one very important lesson: sometimes things had to hurt so you could grow. Sometimes, getting to where you were supposed to be was a painful process. But in the end, you'd get to spread your wings.

*** *** ***

_That one night, when father came home early enough to say goodnight to his daughter, little Ziva was fidgety and could hardly wait for her mother to finish the story of the very hungry caterpillar. Because father watched them quietly, standing in the door frame, and she knew that once their story was done, he would come over and tuck her in and kiss her goodnight, and he hadn't done that in such a long time._

_"That's the story you love so much?" he laughed softly when he finally sat down on the edge of her bed, and she nodded excitedly._

_"Yes! Because he gets beauuutiful butterfly wings!" she said and spread her arms wide before she snuggled into her father's arms happily. "When will I be a butterfly, abba?"_

_"Ah, but you can never be a butterfly, my Ziva," he said, and it was strange, because she had rarely heard him so gentle, yet so determined at the same time. It wasn't childish stubbornness that filled her eyes with tears now but the realization that he was simply speaking a cruel truth in that moment._

_"But I want to!" she protested anyway, because that was the truth as well: she had never in her young life longed for anything more than this. To spread her wings. To tumble through the air and up into the sun._

_He drew back and looked at her sternly. Brushed her unruly curls out of her frowning face and then put his huge hands to her cheeks and scrutinized her as if he tried to look straight into her soul._

_"You cannot be," he said eventually and kissed her forehead. "Because you will be my wasp. Deadly and beautiful."_

*** *** ***

Her face was damp when she opened her eyes, and she blinked, confused, struggling with ragged emotions clawing at her. She took a deep breath and grabbed her pillow, drew her knees up and curled up around it.

For a long time she stared at the other half of her bed, and for the first time in many years she was too aware of how big it was. How empty.

*** *** ***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I apologize profusely for the sappiness of the piano scene. And for Eli breaking her heart.)


	3. future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How it should have been.

**_Although this sudden and rapid change from pupa to imago is often called metamorphosis, metamorphosis is really the whole series of changes._ **

*** *** ***

"Hi," she greeted Tony when he opened the door.

She tried her best to just smile at him. Tried to ignore the guarded expression on his face and not let her own nervousness show. Tried not to wonder if her choice of clothes had been appropriate. 

It was embarrassing enough that for the first time in her life Ziva David had spent almost an hour dressing and undressing again to figure out what to wear. Less revealing, more, less again. Dress, pants, blouse, sweater, dress again. She simply hadn't been able to make up her mind, and that had left her unsettled in a way she wasn't familiar with. 

Eventually she had settled for an eggshell-colored sweater dress without any frills or fancy elements to it, just a clean, straightforward cut with a round neckline. It was just short enough to render it unfit for work... which also made it the right mix between casual and revealing: mostly harmless with its lack of cleavage, until he'd notice her legs. Which he would, eventually. 

It was such a silly thing to think this kind of choice could actually tip scales. And yet...

"What are you doing here?"

"I told you on the phone. I want to take you to dinner. And I'd like to talk." She brushed past him and into the apartment before he could close the door in her face because for a heartbeat he looked like he wanted to do just that. 

"Yeah, and I told you I wasn't in the mood."

She turned and just stared at him, her jaw set, her posture conveying as clearly as possible that she had made up her mind about this until he gave up and closed the door with a sigh. But the way he leaned back against it and crossed his arms with a stubborn frown told her this would not be one of their easy talks. 

With a sigh of her own, she slipped out of her jacket and threw it on the seat by the couch table, and yeah, his eyes flicked down now; she could tell the exact moment where he did notice her legs. He didn't really have a choice, with these shoes. 

It didn't soften his expression, though, and much like last night, she was suddenly hit by the overwhelming sensation that this felt simply... wrong. She couldn't deal with a Tony who was like this, distant and withdrawn. Not letting her in. Without noticing it, she'd gotten too used to the one who shared.

She blinked, looked to the side. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a scene flickering across the screen on his wall, and she turned and watched a couple of scenes to better deal with the pressure of Tony's gaze. Some old TV show, muted. Tall, dark man who looked oddly familiar. She felt like she should know him, and the urge to remember distracted her long enough that Tony sighed once more and gave up his post at the door to walk towards her. No, towards the couch. She just happened to be in the way.

"Look, Ziva--"

"You were wrong," she blurted out, and that unexpected breech in their protocol stopped him dead in his tracks, right behind her.

"What?"

Her fingers wrapped around each other, kneading her own hands, and she couldn't seem to stop. Her eyes were suddenly glued to the TV screen because that was easier than facing him right now. Silly, really, but he was simply too close. She could feel his presence in her back, loud and clear. Looking at him now...

"When you suggested that I just want you for... for comfort. I don't."

The reaction that seemed so crucial to her didn't come, though. He was silent for a few moments longer than she could bear; then he simply touched her shoulder and moved her out of the way so he could sit down on the couch after all.

"Goody," he murmured, then concentrated hard on his silent TV and did his best to ignore her. 

Ziva turned to frown at him, even more confused now. 

"I don't understand," she finally admitted, and he blinked, but still didn't meet her eyes. "You made it clear that you want a... a relationship. I decided that I am not averse to that. Isn't that..." 

Her words trailed off because she didn't know how to phrase it without sounding desperate. Somehow that eased up the unhealthy tension in him a little, but he still sighed and ran a hand through his hair in a way that reeked of frustration. 

"It's not that easy, Ziva."

"Of course it's not." She took a step towards him, watching him intently. "I know that. But it's supposed to be a start, and you... don't seem to want that after all." 

She tilted her head curiously. Frowned harder when he didn't reply and kept his lips tightly shut, and that was an answer in its own way. He lowered his head and jerked his fingers through his hair again, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor. 

For what felt like hours he refused to look at her, and so she made a step towards him and went down on her knees in front of him, so she was at eye level with him and he'd have no choice but to at least acknowledge her presence. When he still didn't react, she reached out and touched his wrist carefully, and he took a slow breath, as if that touch had stirred him out of a deep sleep. 

"Tony, listen to me," she said quietly. "I have thought about this for a long time. And the only thing I really understand about what's going on between us now is this: it's not good the way it is." She paused, her lips trembling when he didn't react because this was what she'd been afraid of. That she'd have to spell out things neither of them was ready to spell out yet. 

God, it shouldn't be this hard. It had never been when they'd talked on the phone. 

And that thought kind of did the trick: she breathed out slowly and closed her eyes for a second. Tried to pretend she heard his voice over the phone and didn't have to look at the tense, tired lines around his eyes that hadn't been there a night ago.

"Last night..."She blinked, broke off. Fought with the words and reforged them before parting with them. "I have already lost one friend to these new... circumstances. And the thought of losing you as well..." She breathed out. He didn't reply, just stared at the hand grasping his, her fingers digging into his skin, clinging to him in a way she'd never allowed herself before. And suddenly the words tumbled out of her as if she'd reached the edge of a cliff. "I hate the thought. I can't have you gone. I need you here, with me."

She waited for him to react while seconds ticked away and stretched into small eternities. But Ziva David had never mastered the art of patience herself (at least not when it came to things that mattered), and so she soon clutched his hands tighter, almost as if she were trying to force a reaction out of him.

"I understand that you're scared. I am, too," she admitted, and with her words, the softest shudder ran underneath his skin. _"You_ scare me. I have never had a man with so many... emotions in my life." She bit her lip, shook her head. "And I honestly have no idea what to do with all of this. But I would like to get a chance to figure it out."

The words fell from her lips, and she didn't even try to contain them. She hadn't planned on their talk to be like this -- blunt and open, without any... foreplay, so to speak. All she'd wanted was a nice, uncomplicated dinner, and then maybe flirt with him a little, and at one point she would have tried to hint at what she really wanted to say. And yes, it would have probably been awkward that way as well because they were both bad at this kind of thing, but eventually, he would have laughed and been good about it, and maybe he'd even kissed her. Which would have been nice. 

But of course, things never happened the way she planned them.

He still refused to look at her directly, and part of her trembled with the overwhelming urge to run and forget this whole thing had ever happened. But she'd gone too far already; she couldn't stop now. Not until they had resolved this, one way or the other. 

She inched closer until her forehead almost touched his and she was close enough to kiss him, if she'd only dared. Both her hands held his now, wrapped around fingers clenched tight, refusing to let her in, much like his whole posture. She needed to get in so badly. She'd never in her life been more desperate for a connection than right now.

"Tony," she urged him quietly, rubbing her palm against his skin, slowly, until his death grip eased up the tiniest bit and she thought she may have a chance to be heard after all. "You were right. You _are_ a part of my family." Her lips quivered, and suddenly her pulse stomped in her throat painfully, because this was the hard part. The part that crossed lines, the part she could never take back because it would finally, irrevocably, change things between them. "But you know we're not like siblings, yes? We're something else."

He laughed, a short, rough bark that didn't hold much amusement. Raised his head, not to look at her, but to stare blindly over her shoulder, his eyes fixed on the muted TV heroes again. She stared at the curve of his jaw, the unhealthy tension clearly visible there, and she had no idea what else to do to get a reaction out of him.

"You told CI-Ray I'm like a brother to you," he said eventually, his voice flat, and Ziva shook her head, not quite sure what to make of his tone. 

"Oh, Tony. That was such a lon--" 

And then her voice gave because suddenly things came together in a way she'd never seen before. Her heart missed a few beats this time because yes, that had been so long ago, and he couldn't possibly mean what she thought she'd heard in between those words... except that his jaw muscles were clenched hard now, jumping in his cheek, and every single fiber of his body screamed the truth at her: that, maybe, even back then... 

She let go of him as if his skin had turned scalding hot. Sat back hard, her hand clamped over her mouth. Her eyes widened even more, and she was suddenly out of air, choking on the enormity of this secret. 

He'd never said a word. Never let it show. He'd even-- 

"You would have let me _marry_ him," she whispered, shocked, and there was that rough bite of his laughter again, scarring her. 

"Yeah, well. I always thought that would have been one of my best movie references ever," he muttered. When she didn't reply, he finally glanced at her. Shrugged casually when he saw her lost expression. "'Love, Actually'? The guy who tapes his best friend's wedding?" He laughed and shook his head when she just kept staring blankly at him. "Nevermind."

"You would have let me marry him!" she repeated accusingly, one hand still raised as if to cover her mouth again, the other pointing aimlessly off into the distance. And she wasn't really sure what she'd said differently this time, but it was finally enough for him to break, for his emotions to spill over and erupt out of the tight confines he had forced them into for such a long time.

"Well, it wouldn't have changed anything!" he yelled, and yes, she flinched. 

Part of her wanted to cower before his anger and the emotions it brought out of her in turn. Except that she couldn't, because she was too shocked by her own instinctive reaction. The gut feeling that he was wrong. That knowing it would have changed... something.

And eventually, she found that she had to admit at least that much.

"How can you say that?" she asked, quietly, frozen. Shocked. "How can you say that when I'm not even sure it's true?" 

She almost choked on that confession, but Tony didn't even realize what she'd just admitted. He was still too angry and too lost in his own emotions to be aware of hers, and so he spit more words at her that made her flinch and then angry in return.

"Because I still wouldn't have been the kind of guy you need."

"Oh, and what kind of guy is that?"

"The kind who's good enough."

The sharp crack of the slap rang loudly between them. She stared at Tony, wide-eyed and shocked, both by his words and her own act. Shocked by the red mark now blossoming on his cheek and the painful sting in her palm. And shocked by the way he suddenly looked at her, because she'd rarely seen him this... tired. Defeated.

He looked like he was about to let go of her. 

She reached for him then, because that was the one thing she couldn't allow. She reached for his face and put her hands to his cheeks before he could pull away and shut her out completely, and he tensed, just for a heartbeat, because this was not the kind of touch he had expected right now. The kind of touch that wasn't punishment, wasn't painful -- at least not physically. 

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and it was a shock to suddenly feel him as close as this: her lips against his, breathing her plea into his mouth, messily. Because she needed him to listen now. Because she needed him to give her a chance to make this right.

By the time the tears came, she'd climbed into his lap, and he'd tensed for a heartbeat. But then he'd put his arms around her and kissed her back, and now she could taste the same kind of shock and overwhelming despair she felt herself in his mouth. And god, no, she hadn't expected this either, that much was clear. Not like this. Never like this.

And yet, later, whenever Ziva thought back to this night, she would concede that in a way, this was the only way it could have happened.

*** *** ***

He was so warm against her. The weight of his arm around her shoulders, his chest moving under her cheek in the slow rhythm of his breathing... it all seemed weirdly familiar, and that was strange because they'd never lain quite like this before. She wasn't sure how long they'd been like this: on his couch, with her face buried in his neck while she soaked up his warmth surrounded her. It seemed easier than looking at each other. Easier than facing... whatever this had turned into.

She felt vaguely naked because her skirt was still hunched up, but she couldn't bring herself to move and tug it down. She remembered straddling him, grabbing his face, and she remembered that he hadn't objected when she'd clung to him like that. He'd kissed her back instead. Had touched her face and brushed her hair out of her face and looked at her with so much emotion in his eyes that at times she hadn't been sure if she was really the one crying.

She'd never made out with someone like that -- drowning in emotions she couldn't control. Not for sex, but simply to quench a desperate hunger, to touch and cling and feel. Too tight, too much, too little, until she could no longer breathe. Until she was no longer sure if that reaction was physical or emotional. 

He hadn't even tried to undress her or take this any further. He'd just kissed her, over and over, and held her, until their ragged breaths had calmed down, and the tears had dried (mostly), and they'd ended up wrapped around each other the way they still lay now.

The pulse in his neck suddenly jumped against her lips. "So what now?" he asked, and Ziva blinked, at a loss for words.

"I don't know. I did not plan for this."

"So what did you plan?" His voice was low and, for the first time today, so gentle that Ziva had to close her eyes because for a heartbeat this felt too much like one of their phone conversations again. Too intimate to handle right now.

"Dinner, and some talking. Mostly just dinner, for a start." She raised a hand to wipe at her sticky cheek and grimaced. "But I think that is no longer an option."

He turned to his side, and for a second she was afraid he'd pull away from her now. He didn't, though, just looked at her with a strange expression she couldn't quite decipher. Then he reached out and brushed away another tear-and-makeup stain with his thumb, very gently, until her heart fluttered strangely and she forgot what she'd wanted to say in the first place. "We could order takeout," he offered.

"We could do that." She hesitated, lips parting, closing again, eyes flicking up to meet his, then back to his mouth. He'd kissed her with that mouth. Her heart jumped to a jackhammer's pace while she wrestled with the question that wanted out just as desperately as she wanted it buried in a deep dark hole. She lost the fight when she watched his face, watched him withdraw before her very eyes. "Can I stay?"

A soft smile played around his mouth, the tiniest trace of sadness hidden underneath the playful mockery. "You think I'm gonna send you home with your takeout?"

"No, I mean tonight." Her words were hardly more than a breath, rushed because she was now sure how he would react and not sure if this was too much to ask. She still had to, though. "You said that one of the things you want is spend the night with me. Wake up with me and... and know that I was there, and I... I'd like that. I think."

And that was close enough to skirt around the true reason for her plea: that she couldn't fight the dread that overwhelmed her when she thought of leaving now, simply because she knew how he'd spend this night: he'd be stuck in his own thoughts for hours, and he'd end up backing away from her even harder, and so they'd be back to square one in the morning. No, worse. It would undo everything they had accomplished.

In the end, he never really answered her question. He just looked at her quietly and ran his thumb along the curve of her cheekbone. Back, forth, back again. Touched her gently like that while he seemed to try and make up his mind. But he never told her no, and that was some kind of answer.

*** *** ***

He was fussing with the sheets when she came out of the bathroom, hair open, teeth brushed, her face freshly scrubbed and bare. His nervousness radiated loudly, and for some reason that reflected back to her. Suddenly she felt incredibly naked in the shirt she had borrowed from him. It reached her thighs, yes. Still...

It was too late to reconsider her choice now, though, because he'd heard her and already turned around to look at her. His eyes danced over her for a heartbeat, and he watched her quietly while he sat down at the foot of the bed. A strange mix of emotions flickered in his gaze, and she licked her lips nervously. She couldn't remember him ever looking at her quite like that.

"For a girl who doesn't do clichés," he said eventually, "you handle them pretty well."

She blinked, confused, and a slight smile tugged at his pretty mouth when he explained, "That's my favorite shirt."

"Oh," she said, and her fingers twisted the hem of the shirt until his expression softened the tiniest bit. Strangely, that didn't help much; it just left her feeling even more self-conscious. 

Oh, this was ridiculous. Yes, it was uncharted territory for both of them, but they were adults and even somewhat reasonable at times. And they had known each other for so many years. It simply shouldn't be this hard.

And then he asked, "Are you sure about this?", and her stomach tingled at the softly voiced question because it shouldn't be, true. And yet, things had gotten complicated. 

"I have slept here before."

"Yeah, but you had the bed to yourself."

And, just like that, he'd said the words to make this all frighteningly real. 

God, they really had no idea what they were doing here. Both of them. Children, really. Fumbling along and playing with things that weren't exactly forbidden anymore, but still felt like they were.

She met his eyes and fought her own anxiety while she tried to listen to her feelings, just so she could answer him truthfully. Was she truly okay with this? Or would she, in the bright light of morning, regret whatever happened tonight?

She breathed out eventually and walked over to him. Reached out and touched his face gently, and then moved closer still. Close enough that he had to tilt his head back so he could meet her eyes. Close enough that she could feel his warmth. 

The urge to kiss him again tugged at her insides, and for a heartbeat she thought about giving in, just so they could move on. Except that she couldn't. Not when he looked at her like that -- all vulnerable and unsure and spreading himself wide open by leaving her the lead. She had to be sure, for him. She could not simply force this along, just to get it over with.

His eyelids fluttered when she ran her fingers through his hair, and she couldn't help but smile at his reaction. Touch was good, it seemed. Touch made him mellow. So she kept touching him, kept running her fingers through his hair, and in the end, when she put an arm around his neck, he sighed and leaned into her, his cheek against her chest, his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. 

For a long time they stood like that, lost in holding each other, each to their own thoughts. And slowly, while they relaxed into the other's presence and got used to the new sensations of intimacy, Ziva found that touching him had a good effect on her as well: it grounded her. Comforted her. 

In the end, she was sure about at least one thing: this was not a part she would ever feel regret over.

*** *** ***

Warmth, again, so much of it. His steady heartbeat underneath her cheek. His arm around her, as if they had slept like that a hundred times before, keeping her close even while he was asleep. Her naked leg -- and that was the part that let sudden heat rush through her -- was stuck halfway between his in a way that rendered it just this side of friendship.

She knew all of this was mostly because his bed didn't allow for much space between them. She knew it. And yet, her pulse suddenly jumped in her throat, because he smelled so good, and he felt good against her, too. And he wore just his shorts. He'd even asked her if he should put on a shirt, and she'd said she was okay with it, but now... right now all she could feel was the urge to run her mouth over that warm, naked skin.

She listened to his breathing while she tried to sort through her whirling emotions, but it wasn't easy. She was still stuck somewhere in that half-state between waking and dreaming, and that didn't help with the way she reacted to his presence: instinctively, burrowing deeper and deeper into his warmth and trying to soak up more of it because she just couldn't seem to get enough. As if she were drunk, from his presence, from being surrounded by him. And like any drug one wasn't used to, she found herself overwhelmed by the effect.

Her fingers spread on his skin, drew together again, exploring gently, and at first Ziva didn't even notice the way she touched him. Her fingertips ran down his chest with a will of their own, pressing against his skin, and his breathing quickened in response. She felt his heartbeat thud and jump, and her lips parted because suddenly she was anxious to see how much of a reaction she could get out of him before he--

"You do realize I'm awake, yes?" he asked quietly, with his eyes still closed, but his heartbeat thumped away harshly. He clearly wasn't as confused by the novelty of the sensations as she was. Or at least his body wasn't.

He smelled so good. She'd never had the chance to enjoy him this close before -- not like this anyway. Her skin itched because she couldn't seem to get enough of this scary new closeness, and so she turned her head, pressed her face into his neck and breathed in his scent while her hand continued its interrupted exploration down his body. 

"It was hard to miss," she murmured, cupping him through his shorts, and he took a sharp breath at her bold touch. She felt him twitch against her palm, harden more, and that sensation sobered her up instantly because his instinctive reaction was so far from simple and mere comfort of touch. It was blunt and to the point, and, god, this was sex. With her best friend.

"I'm sorry," she muttered and pulled her hand back awkwardly. "That was too--" _Too much, too fast, too soon._

She tensed involuntarily, and he knew her well enough to tighten his arm around her and keep her right where she was. With a sigh he took her hand and pulled it up to his mouth, and she trembled slightly when he pressed his lips to her palm. 

"Don't worry. We're still good." His lips moved against her palm, and maybe it was just because he was so close this time or because there were so few clothes between them, but her eyelids fluttered nervously all of a sudden, and her body rushed to keep up with the sensations flooding her.

"I _want_ to move this forward," she whispered against his neck heatedly, and he fell very still. "But I don't know how, and that's silly because I used to know how to do these things, you know?"

He chuckled then, and she pressed her lips shut to contain the next wave of useless, stupid words. For a few seconds neither of them spoke. She could hear him think this through, loud and clear, and it drove her crazy that she had no idea where his thoughts were headed. What kind of reaction to brace herself for.

Eventually, he turned to his side to face her, and the way he shifted brought him a lot closer and his thigh between hers, and that sent mad heat through her, setting her cheeks on fire. It didn't help that he still had her hand in his and now tugged gently to drape her arm across his waist. If anything, the simple gesture made this a lot more distracting. Intimate.

He sighed suddenly and reached up to brush a wayward strand of hair out of her face. "That show I watched last night," he murmured, and Ziva tried to concentrate even though her insides fluttered stupidly simply from the way he touched her face. "'Remington Steele' rerun. Fun show. Grew up with it, but haven't seen it in ages."

She breathed out, her eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat. "Does this have a point? Or will this be like your movie references?"

He snorted. His other hand, the one he still had around her back to keep her close, strayed down to pinch her side, and for a second she forgot the grave thoughts and the nervousness and just squirmed against him, laughing. 

"Yes, it does have a point, little Miss Impatient." He fell silent again, though, and Ziva's trepidation returned. She watched him quietly; this time he seemed to be the one struggling to find a good way to go about things. "They have this secretary, Mildred."

"'Mildred'...?"

"Hey, don't mock the Mildred. She's kickass. She's what Abby will be like when she's sixty." More silence, more touching. And more confusion in the wake of it. "Last night, Mildred said a pretty smart thing. She said it's easy to let yourself go with someone you don't care about."

She blinked, and her gaze skittered all over the place because yes, this did have a point. And it struck home, so hard that she suddenly felt a little dizzy. 

"Abby would never say such a thing," she finally replied weakly, and he chuckled.

"Give her twenty years."

"Tony..." She wanted to say more, but she couldn't because she was all out of useful words, and so she just looked at him and met his eyes and tried not to drown in the way his body suddenly strummed with tension. And no, no... there was really nothing friend-like in the way he felt against her now.

He did kiss her then. Put his big hand to the back of her neck like she'd wanted him to and pulled her close, and then he simply leaned over her and put his mouth to hers, just like that. As if it hadn't been hard at all and this was something they did all day, every day. 

His hands were even softer than his mouth, cautious, but firm on her skin at the same time, and her throat was suddenly tight. There was nothing simple about the way he touched her. How he held her and dug his fingers into her skin and slipped them under her shirt eventually... his shirt, really. How he traced the fault lines of her cocoon and coaxed them open, gently, gently... and yet, at the same time, not. 

She'd never been kissed like that before, with such clear, palpable... intent. And never once while so many emotions curled up inside her own belly, threatening to burst out of her with every heartbeat. Her pulse raced, and oh, he tasted so good. She didn't even have a choice now. She couldn't think, couldn't stop, and so, soon enough, she clung to him in return, desperate, drowning in too much desire and too many sensations at once. Heat and lust and that other feeling, too. The new one. The one that made her head spin and left her all weak in the wake of its potency. 

Any second now. 

She could feel it: the restraints of a whole life rippling, weakening, and, eventually, bursting apart at the worn seams. 

Any second now, she'd spread her wings.

*** *** ***

She thought about breakfast when she came out of the shower, and maybe a kiss -- maybe one that would be slightly awkward, because whatever this was between them, it clearly wasn't dealt with properly. Maybe, though, it would be a nice, warm, welcoming kiss instead. Like the one he'd brushed to her mouth just before he'd left to get croissants and... well, the things he actually needed for a proper breakfast. (His fridge was still mostly empty, after all.)

She hadn't expected to hear McGee's voice from the living room, stumbling over words excitedly while he poured them at Tony in rapid succession. Ziva blinked, then tied the robe she had borrowed from Tony.

"I'm telling you, Tony, this is the perfect solution! Come on, let's call Ziva and see what she thinks about it!"

"No need."

McGee's mouth fell open when he turned his head at the sound of her voice and saw her standing in the bedroom door, toweling her wet curls. Tony's eyes, on the other hand, widened with a slightly panicked expression, and for a second she wasn't sure what to make of that.

"Ziva," McGee stuttered. "I... ah. I had no idea you're here."

She shrugged. "It got late last night, so I crashed on Tony."

McGee blinked. Opened his mouth. Shut it again. Thought hard. "You mean on his couch?"

"No." Two pairs of eyes followed her while she strode over to the couch and sat down. McGee looked slightly puzzled, as if he were waiting for an explanation that took its sweet time, while Tony... Tony, underneath the vaguely cornered expression, seemed to fight a smile all of a sudden. "What was it you wanted to talk about?"

"Probie woke up with the bright idea of making us private investigators," he replied while McGee still looked as if he'd lost his train of thought. 

With a smile Tony sauntered over to the couch as well and sat down beside her, and for a second she had to fight the urge to lean into him out of reflex. His scent was still so good and strong. Distracting, really. His hand, low in her back now, didn't help, and she blinked and tried to concentrate. 

In the meantime, McGee had jumped on his cue excitedly and rattled down his thoughts fast, as if he was afraid he'd lose their attention any second. So fast, in fact, that Ziva was afraid any second now he'd pull out a spreadsheet and show them cold, hard numbers to support his idea. 

In the end, though, he said the one thing that made more sense than all the logical facts in the world. "Look, we've worked together for, what, eight years? Nine? And yes, sometimes we hate each other, but that doesn't change the fact that we do a good job together, right?"

She looked at Tony, and a tiny jolt went through her when he met her gaze. Yes. They did a good job together, indeed. And it surprised her to realize that this had been her biggest problem over the last week: she simply couldn't imagine doing that job with anyone else.

*** *** ***

He was so massive and solid. A heavy presence against her back; she liked feeling him like that. His arm was also heavy around her waist, and his limbs tangled with hers in a way that was almost silly... and yet, she enjoyed the sensation very much. His fingertips traced slow patterns up and down her hand and forearm, and Ziva's head rolled back against his chest. Her eyelids fluttered in time with the sensations he drew out of her. She liked how he'd begun to touch her suddenly -- all tender and just for the sake of contact alone. She hadn't expected him to be like that after sex. So... personal.

She threaded her fingers with his, turning things a notch more intimate, and he held her a little tighter in response. Pressed his lips to her temple. She could feel him thrumming all of a sudden, and she tried not to hold her breath because she knew the words that clawed their way out of him right now would be hard for her to hear as well.

And yet, despite the way she braced herself, she didn't see it coming.

"Don't go back to Israel." 

Her fingers tightened around his and her pulse thundered in her ears, but it wasn't just her who was suddenly scared to death: she could feel the fear coiling in his muscles as well, freezing him in place.

For a heartbeat she wondered how he could be so unsure about her. How he could truly believe that she would fight with him like she had, sleep with him like she had, and then go away, as if it all meant nothing. 

But then it tightened her throat painfully when she realized that she couldn't even be upset with him. She'd never given him a good reason to be sure, after all.

Her own mistake. Hers alone.

"Last night," she pressed out slowly and found that this, too, was a lot easier to say while he just held her and she wasn't looking at him, "before I came over, I deposited the rent for my apartment. Six months in advance." His heart thundered against her back, but he didn't say anything, and so she felt the need to elaborate. Make him understand. "I never paid for more than a month in my entire life because I never knew where I'd be the next day."

He didn't say anything for a long time, just tightened his arm around her waist for a heartbeat. Then, suddenly, the tiniest shudder ran through him, and he turned his head and pressed his face into her hair. 

"Okay," he muttered, and there was her pulse again, pounding away while his calmed down all of a sudden. He breathed out, and Ziva blinked, confused because with that one breath, he'd let go of more than just air. 

He felt different against her all of a sudden. As if a certain tension had left him. And it was weird, because it was the kind of tension she'd never even known was there, simply because he'd carried it around with him for so long. She'd known it was there, but she'd always believed it was simply a part of him. 

His arms were still tight around her, refusing to let go of her, but even that felt different now, and suddenly she was the one who was overwhelmed.

He sensed it, of course. Kissed her temple again, then buried his face into her neck with a satisfied hum. Drew her back against his body until she could feel him from head to toe, and that sensation distracted her easily -- too easily, and she knew she should be embarrassed about this. But she had to admit, he'd been right about one thing: the sex _was_ highly satisfying. 

"You think you could get some of it back?" he murmured against her skin, and she blinked, confused. 

"Why?"

"Would be a shame to pay for a place you don't use, since I don't plan on allowing you to leave this bed any time soon..."

She laughed, the sound just bubbling up inside her. Strange, but she couldn't remember the last time it had felt like that. Natural. 

"You'll need a bigger bed then."

"Not if we spend as much time as possible on top of each other."

And yes, that was the exact moment she felt his intent come back. Loud and clear.

Her body, already adjusting to the new dynamic between them, went with the flow easily. Forgotten was the mere comfort of touch: just like that, they reached a non-verbal agreement, favorable for both sides. And so -- for the time being -- they abandoned snuggling in favor of lust.

*** *** ***

Ziva found him at the dinner table that was still no dinner table, but a mess of work-related things instead. She wasn't entirely sure what had woken her. Maybe the absence of his warmth, so familiar after such a short time, or maybe the light from the living room. Maybe it had been the soft ding of his laptop, though, when Tony clicked away yet another pop-up window with a muttered curse.

"What are you doing?" She slipped her arms around his neck from behind and glanced at his screen. Not porn, so why did he seem embarrassed?

"Research," he muttered and shrugged awkwardly. He ran his hand up her arm, stroking her skin softly, and just like that her attention scattered away. It was embarrassing, really -- to be so distracted by a simple touch.

"What kind of research?"

"Uhm," he said, and now it was his turn to be distracted because she leaned into him and pressed her lips to his temple. "Requirements for getting a private investigator's license in DC." His voice was low, hushed, as if he had just admitted something embarrassing. "Just... you know. Checking up on the probie's facts..." He closed his eyes and leaned back against her and into her embrace. "... 'cause checking facts is important..."

"Tony?"

"Mhmm?"

She touched his cheek, and he complied and tilted his head back to look at her. "Come back to bed," she murmured, and her heart stuttered a little when a brilliant smile spread on his face. 

Oh, that man. He would be so good for her, yes -- but oh so dangerous as well. She could feel it already.

"You're really getting into this, aren't you?" he asked, and now it was Ziva's turn to smile because he looked so ridiculously sweet all of a sudden. Happy, even. 

She stroked his cheek, and her thumb brushed the corner of his smug, talented mouth. 

"Wasn't that the whole point?"

For a second he just stared at her quietly, and his eyes flickered with an unexpected rush of emotions she couldn't quite decipher. And yes, Ziva felt weird herself: she could feel her stomach knot with something halfway between nervousness and joy. 

She was tempted to step back and bring some distance between them, but just then he suddenly reached up and put his hand to her neck. Tugged gently, until she bent down to meet him halfway. 

His kiss wasn't quite as gentle as his hand. It was feverish and too emotional instead, and she almost choked on the intensity of it. But it didn't take long until she forgot the anxiety tugging at her insides and kissed him back just as heatedly, simply because she couldn't resist him. Couldn't resist his urgency, and his lips, and the way he pulled her closer...

Oh, yes. One day, he would be her downfall. That, she knew already.

*** *** ***

This time she was sure she had woken from the sensation of his absence, and she blinked and rolled to her stomach, confused.

Maybe it was just because she'd spent so many hours now pressed to him tightly, limbs tangled with his in a too-small bed out of necessity. It was still disconcerting to realize that in no more than two nights her body had gotten so used to his presence that Tony not being there had turned into an alarm signal.

She heard him in the living room again, talking quietly on the phone. A quick glance showed her that it was nearing her former work hours, and that surprised her. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept that long, even without an alarm set.

"No, I _really_ don't feel like going through security," he said just then. "And since it's off the record, for now..."

Ziva frowned at his choice of words just when he turned and saw that she was awake. His eyes lit up, and he gave her a smile that tickled her skin even from afar. 

"Okay. Nine's fine, I'll be there. Thank you." 

He snapped his phone shut and came back into the bedroom, and she rolled to her side and watched him curiously. "You're up," she remarked as he squatted down beside the bed. How had she slept through him showering and getting dressed?

"Yeah," he said and reached out to brush a curl out of her face. "Figured you could use a bit more sleep. Listen, I need to run off for a bit."

"I heard. Is this for a job?"

The corners of his mouth twitched, and she wasn't quite sure what to make of that reaction. "Sort of. I'll tell you when I get back, okay?" He leaned towards her as if to kiss her goodbye and then get up, and she suddenly found herself reaching for him, grasping his wrist so he couldn't leave yet.

"I think we should do it," she said, and that was strange, because she couldn't remember consciously making the decision. 

Predictably, his soft smile turned into a vaguely lewd smirk. "We did it all night."

"Not that," she snorted, and he chuckled, but sobered up soon because he knew there was something going on inside her head now. "The detective agency." 

He looked at her, very quiet all of a sudden, and she had no idea what that look meant. But then he took her hand and wove his fingers into hers, and for a heartbeat Ziva felt overwhelmed by the simple intimacy of that gesture. She stared at their joined hands, and he must have seen her struggle because he suddenly smiled at her -- a brief twist to his lips that was barely there.

"You know I love you, right?"

Her stomach dropped out on her right then. She hadn't expected those words -- not now, not from him -- and her eyes widened in something that wasn't quite shock and not quite surprise either. Awe, maybe. Because he, of all people, made it suddenly sound so easy.

She blinked, not sure what to say or even what he expected her to say. Deep down inside, she knew that she would have liked to return the sentiment, but that wasn't an option. Not yet. Because unlike him, she'd only had a few days to grow accustomed to the feeling.

Her skin prickled, but he didn't let go of her hand despite her silence. He just kept smiling at her, content, and once again she wondered how she'd never noticed all of his emotions before. 

It was so weird, how this was at the same time the Tony she'd always known... and yet, he wasn't. This Tony was at ease. Happy, even.

Maybe it _was_ that simple? Could it hurt to try?

She returned his smile and tightened her grip on his hand. "I was... recently made aware of it..." she replied, her own lips twitching, and warmth spread through her at the way he suddenly looked at her. His smile deepened into something blindingly brilliant, and he tugged her hand up to his lips to press a kiss to the back of it. 

It hadn't been a "me, too" -- she couldn't do that yet, and he knew it. But apparently it had been enough for him, and the grin he gave her when he took out his phone again was so dazzling that it went straight to her nerve endings. Oh, it was too bad his appointment would be so soon.

"McGee?" he bellowed into his phone. "We're doing it!" He listened to the reply, all excited, still holding her hand, and she fought with the silly chuckle that threatened to trickle out of her mouth. 

So yes, maybe he did turn into a giant man child at times. But there was no denying the fact that his enthusiasm was infectious.

And then she had to clamp her hand over her mouth after all, just so she wouldn't laugh out loud, because his eyebrows narrowed when wrong conclusions were drawn at the other end of the line. 

"No, not that. The detective agency."

*** *** ***

They met at Tuscany's for lunch, which, according to Tony, served the world's best pizza... in DC. Ziva was inclined to disagree, but never voiced the objection because the pizza was good enough, and so was the mood.

Lunch meetings, it seemed, were despite a lack of alcohol more relaxed than their drunken Friday meetings, and there was a lot less melancholy at play.

Then again, maybe that was simply because they had come to talk about a future that didn't involve parting ways.

The actual business talk was carefully set aside until after lunch, and even then they barely scratched the surface of things that needed to be considered for this. They did the verbal equivalent of pulling each other's hair, to lighten the burden of such a big decision, with Tony joking that Ziva already had the cool car for a P.I. job and Ziva shooting back that he could bring his own car, she'd bring the bank contacts instead to help with financing. (She was Jewish, after all, and yes, sometimes even Ziva worked clichés for all they were worth.)

They'd have a long road of contracts and licenses and hunting for clients ahead of them, they were all very aware of that. But in the end they all agreed on the fact that they couldn't think of better partners to work with. Each of them knew what the others were capable of, and they had worked so well together over the years that in the end, when all arguments had been spread out on the table, they couldn't find a single one that spoke against the idea.

It wouldn't be the same, that much was clear. But it would be good, and it would be a fresh start.

As if he'd heard that thought, McGee now scratched his nose and said, "No more boss. And no more rules. Gonna be weird."

Ziva breathed out slowly, and she felt like something rippled and cracked inside her. This was it: the moment where an unseen weight, one she hadn't even been aware of, tilted to slip off her own shoulders. 

"We can make our own rules, if we need them," she suggested, and Tony turned his head to meet her eyes with a curious expression.

"I think there's only one rule we need," he said eventually. "No secrets, no lies." He glanced at McGee, then Ziva, and in the end he lowered his eyes and watched his own fingers drum a nervous rhythm on the table. "At least not between us." 

And that line, as simple as it was, clawed at her heart because she suddenly remembered that, yes, not too long ago she had still kept many things from him. She had lied to him, and omitted, and the last time she had even dragged McGee into it. 

And yet, he still loved her. She wasn't entirely sure how that was possible or how she deserved it, but he did. 

She glanced at McGee, who seemed vaguely uncomfortable all of a sudden, because he remembered what had happened just a few weeks ago as well, and that was when she realized that they were on the verge of keeping yet another secret from each other -- a huge one, which could possibly affect their partnership for years. McGee deserved to know before they went in the deep end. And Tony... Tony deserved honesty about this as well.

So she leaned forward and reached for his hand, and when he turned his palm up, she laced her fingers with his. "It's a good rule," she said, grasping his hand tightly, and he looked up, meeting her gaze with slight surprise because he hadn't quite expected that sort of openness. Not yet. But then he broke into a smile and raised her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back in a gesture that had already become eerily familiar. 

McGee suddenly said, "oh" and then once more, "Oh!", as if he'd only now realized what all of this meant. Which, well, was probably not far from the truth.

Tony ignored McGee's stutter, just kept looking at her in a way that left her thrumming inside. "My secret is this," he smiled, and yes, she tried to concentrate on his words, but it was suddenly hard. "I met Vance this morning." 

Shocked silence followed his words, and he shook his head and added quickly, "Not to go back. But I may have found a solution for how to survive for a while without clients lining up."

"Now I'm confused."

Tony winked at McGee and made a hush gesture. "He'll pull some strings and redirect it back and forth and you'll probably understand a lot better what he talked about. But if we go ahead with this, he'll... outsource, sort of. He'll give us the cold cases."

"Woah, wait..."

"Can he do that?" Ziva asked. "Pull enough strings, I mean?"

Tony's mouth tightened for a heartbeat, and his grip on her hand echoed the fleeting tension. "He pulled them for Gibbs. And I made it pretty clear that he owes us. For getting pulled.

"It can't be official in any way. But it'll help, right?"

She smiled at him, and he grinned back, and oh, this was ridiculous, really -- to feel this happy simply because he was.

McGee slouched back in his seat, and he looked exhausted all of a sudden. "Man, that makes my secret almost lame."

Tony's head whipped around sharply, and his eyes narrowed in the way they did whenever he'd stumbled across something unexpectedly interesting. "Oh, I smell something good here. Spill it, McMildred! Is it juicy? Scandalous? Gossipy?"

"It's _helpful,"_ McGee replied with a bite to his voice, but even while he said it, a hint of uncertainty crept back. "At least I hope so. Remember my friend Terry? We talked this morning, and she told me they're moving offices, so the old ones are up for grabs. Good location, pretty affordable, and they come partly furnished."

Silence met his words, until Tony cleared his throat. "I dunno, McGee. The last affordable joint you rented as a base of operations wasn't quite what I had in mind..."

"It's not like that apartment!" McGee protested. "And it's not like I signed anything yet."

"But I bet you have allll the necessary paperwork lined up already...?"

Ziva chuckled at the way McGee squirmed under Tony's accusation and then raised his chin stubbornly. "I see nothing wrong with being prepared."

"It is not the worst trait to have," she agreed. Tony squeezed her hand, and for a second she couldn't breathe because this was happening, fast. Too fast? Then she glanced at both her partners, and the tension in her chest eased up to a bearable level. "I'd like to take a look."

And it was funny, really: despite his mocking, Tony suddenly radiated a content happiness she'd never felt from him before. Never quite like this.

"Now all we need is a snazzy name," he said. And there it was again: the grin that always went straight to her gut.

*** *** ***

She could tell that Tony liked the part of Georgetown even before they'd set a foot into the building, and she could see why: it wasn't one of those shiny new office complexes with lots of glass and steel. Instead, historical brick houses were huddled together close to the Potomac. It was not a new neighborhood by any means -- it was old-style and classy in its own way. And dear god, if they'd go for this place, Tony's references to long-forgotten movie detectives would surely grow out of hand soon...

But truth be told, she liked it, too. It felt like a good place to be in.

While they walked to the address his friend had given him, McGee listed the pros excitedly. Strangely enough, he always came back to the well-maintained high-speed internet access and other technical details that made his geek heart jump with joy. 

It wasn't surprising that Tony only paid a minimum of attention to his friend's rambling and looked for their goal instead.

"That's it, over there," he said suddenly, pointing, and she could feel how hard he tried to appear indifferent, but still failed miserably. His excitement was seeping through the cracks, and when he realized it as well, he gave up pretending: he struck a pose instead and stretched out his hand towards McGee, palm up. His voice fell into the same tone he always used for both Nicholson and Pacino, so Ziva wasn't entirely sure which one he was going for this time. "Hand me the keys, you fucking cocksucker!"

Ziva groaned and raised a hand to rub her forehead. McGee, speechless for a second, turned to look at Tony with shock-widened eyes. 

"That... was that a movie quote...?"

"Yes, it was," she replied in Tony's stead. "'The Usual Suspects', nineteen-ninety... something. I forgot."

"Nineteen-ninety five." Tony, already poised halfway to answer the question, turned to her and closed his mouth hard. "You know that movie."

"Yes."

"But it's a man movie. Since when do you watch man movies?"

She shrugged and tried to hide the smile that wanted to grow in direct relation to his outrage. "It has Gabriel Byrne in it, I like Gabriel Byrne," she explained. "He's Jewish."

"He's _Irish!"_

Another shrug of hers, followed by more glaring from him. "Close enough."

McGee groaned then, shook his head, and marched on while he dug through his pockets for the office keys. He didn't look back to see if the others followed him, and for a while they stood like that -- Tony radiating childish jealousy while Ziva had her chin raised high and returned his stare decidedly smug.

He shook his head in exasperation eventually, but before he could turn away and follow McGee, Ziva reached out and touched his arm, holding him back.

"'Unusual Suspects'," she said, and he frowned. "You wanted a name for our agency. Is that one snazzy enough?"

He blinked, then broke into a huge grin. "I like it! Come on, let's outvote McGee..."

He wanted to run after the other man, but she kept her hand on his arm, kept holding him in place until he turned back to her and looked at her curiously.

"Just for the record," she said then and stepped up close to him, until she could feel his warmth and his breath on her face and the way he suddenly struggled not to lean into her while others were watching. "I like you a lot better than Gabriel Byrne."

And again, it wasn't a love declaration. Not yet. But from the way he suddenly looked at her, all warm and mellow and with such infectious happiness radiating off him... yeah. He'd understood.

*** *** ***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this story, obviously, but only the beginning of a whole universe. It began as a joke after last season's finale, when I said that I'd love to see them do a remix of "Hart to Hart" and "Simon and Simon". Then, with the woes of Ziva's departure and the travesty that is season 11, it became more and more apparent I had to write this.
> 
> I apologize that it took me so long to finish -- the [ campaign to get Cote back on the show](http://www.bringbackcote.com/) ate a lot of my time lately. But I promise this is not the last you've seen of this universe. And there are so many, many stories that are still left to be told.... I'll be busy for a few more years, I guess. ;)


End file.
